Tedious
by Novoux
Summary: Kida's hatred runs deep for Izaya for what he's done to Saki. And now he has his turn for revenge. Rated for gore and non-consensual acts of violence. For Evilkitten3; eventual Shizaya.
1. Divide by Zero

_**Warning for torture, gore, and non-consensual sex (rape). Turn back now if unwilling to read about any of these subjects.  
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><p>They hang him like a fish to dry with his arms bending behind his back until his shoulder blades stick out like wings. Crucified, in their twisted version, of a demonic angel hanging on a hook with his arms bound and both popped out of their sockets. To be fair, Izaya's arms are still unbroken despite each and every bone in his hands broken and smashed beneath shoes and heavy hammers. When they laugh as he starts to squirm a gurgled cry starts to slither from his lips and it tastes like the blood on his chin. Dry, cracking, and stale air in the lavished room of an amateur porn set and Izaya finds himself the brightly-lit star, covering himself quickly in the many cuts that slice through skin enough to bleed. Only enough to hurt, because he can't miss out on this.<p>

He laughs when they try to break him with words. Threaten anyone he loves—ha, ha, cute joke—until it's starting to become frustrating and while he wriggles from time to time after a well-placed punch or a sucker punch to his jaw that bruises his chin, they think of something else. A bunch of low-life idiots from a section of the Yellow Scarves, waiting for a bigger fish to fry and batter before they serve. Except they never remember that Izaya hates fish eyes.

"Oi, Orihara-san!" one calls; Izaya doesn't bother to lift his head when he can't see out of one eye and his vision is a little hazy. The drugs stabbed into the artery of his throat make life a little more difficult as the real fun starts to begin. "What do you want first, the arms, or the legs?" A sledgehammer clicks at a heavy boot and Izaya narrows an eye, hearing the clank of metal against metal and his blood starts to jump in his veins when he hears the scraping sounds. It's not like him to be like this—for two days he's been hanging on and off until they decide to gut him, but he never thinks they have the idea.

"I'd rather you play fair, Yellow Scarves-kun. Or should I address you differently, Horada-san?" Izaya lifts his head—mistake. Realizes it when another fist from a different corner and blinding light explodes into his cheek and his nose starts to gush blood. Dribbling down his lips, tasting like burning fire and copper and down to his tattered shirt. Somewhere along the way his jacket is missing and possibly in a torn heap set aflame. Only to agitate, but Izaya doesn't fall prey so easily. So he feels the first stab of a blade in his side like the pain bursting in his eye and wriggles with a caught gasp when the blood heats the chill of goosebumps. A gut wound isn't immediately painful and it's shallow enough that it won't cause any damage besides some bleeding. Smart as they think they are, they're stupid.

Stars burst across his eyes and his head rattles with the click of teeth and his brain slamming against the inside of his skull. "We're not playing your game, Orihara-san," the voice beside him coos and snarls with a twist of lips Izaya can't see. As far as he's concerned, his eye is bleeding or weeping salty liquid that starts to grate on raw nerves digging deeper than the flesh. "So I'll give you the suggestion to stop talking." Izaya raised an eyebrow at this while he calculates his thoughts, wondering where this is going exactly and feels the buzzing numbness in his arms start to travel to his chest. Heart beating erratically he can't convince himself quite yet that the ache isn't getting to him. It is, despite the wonderful show of indifferent boredom he can pull with a simple downward turn of the lips.

Horada in front of him, arms and fingers clenching at the skin of his wrists bound by cords and digging too deeply for his own good. Blood starts to split in numb little twinges of fingernails cutting through and the drug is working when he feels it. His arms are numb though his skin is alive. Humming with thousands of tiny networks of pain centers flaring and slowly coming to life after the last injection of whatever drug they can find while his vision starts to suffer. Horada looks like a blur compared to the dull white of the walls and the ugly floor leaking in blood. "Take him down," he huffs, sounding miles away to Izaya and he blinks—unaware of why the fingers are tightening and why it's beginning to hurt more than it should when he feels himself lift up, taking flight. And then crashing down to the ground where he collides with a rough thud and skin scraping, screaming in the pound of his ears, as it catches on the floor. Izaya blinks a couple times, albeit more sluggishly and feels a heavy weight settle on his back that feels like more bruises.

"Do you realize what you've done, Orihara-san?" Horada doesn't sound as stupid as Izaya remembers. A grim smile starts to twist on his face when his head lifts and pounds. Right before he feels a hand twist in his hair and slam him back onto the ground, pulsing with his nosebleed and the accuracy of bone cracking is something to be noted. Not in his current condition where Izaya starts to feel dazed from more than just the lethal mix of sedatives in his blood. Maybe they'll leave the swirls of vision and bursts of light in his eyes when he collides with the ground another time with a sharp thud and a crack reaching his ears. Maybe his nose is broken by now and he has the irresistible urge to laugh.

He opens his mouth to speak through the blood that begins to rush in and vaguely decides it is not a good idea. It tastes foul. And Horada is probably grinning if the room would kindly just stop spinning for a moment. "Feeling dizzy, Orihara-san? We've only just begun. And since you don't wish to cooperate, we'll have to play by my rules. Do I need to explain?" With this Izaya feels his head rush to the ground and pangs start to thrum in his blood. His heart is beating too fast too quick too much and he's starting to lose himself when his vision threatens to fade with black spots. "Nod, Orihara." No more honorifics and certainly no sense in trying.

Izaya has the audacity to grin at him, smiling with a smirk curling his lips while the blood runs in rivulets against cold flesh and bruising headaches. All the while he assesses the damage of a broken nose and a moderate concussion developing. His grasp is slipping, irritatingly enough.

Reaffirmed simply by the steel pressing against his carotid artery and the flash of light as Horada draws a knife.

This is going to be fun.

Izaya dips his head, dropping forth and feeling the fingers clench—too tight—in his hair before slowly inching up to send a look of disappointment at Horada. Not able to manage boredom Izaya can keep himself from biting through his lip when the knife bites into his throat and the fingers tighten again to digging into his scalp, Horada starts to walk toward him, shoving a boot under Izaya's chin and prying his head up to glance at him through heavy eyelids with the alarming rate of black spots dotting his vision again. "You play by your own rules. That's what got you in this mess. Playing us like a bunch of idiots." A sneer behind Izaya and a thumb jabs between his shoulder blades with a shock racing down his spine. Along the ridges of each vertebrae Izaya feels the heel of a knife, brushing against the raised knobs of his spine with the pressure on his throat from the knife's blade earlier disappearing to a silk-line trace of blood beneath his ear.

Horada's face is twisted in anger, frustration—such pretty emotions to count and file away for later. Of course he can't control his own childish rage when his boot connects with Izaya's face, snapping his head back with the crunch of teeth grinding together and bone.

The one holding Izaya down, sitting on his dislocated arms with full body weight that makes even breathing difficult without the temptation to flinch, shifts with the recoil force of a powerful kick to Izaya's jaw and tugs at his arms painfully. Muscles ripple beneath the flesh with stinging waves of agitation and teeth scrape against his bottom lip already split and seeping blood from previous bite wounds. He can't let Horada find satisfaction, no matter the effect, of his game that he wants to play. This is all observation on his own of how his precious humans react when angered and thirsting for violent revenge.

For some reason it reminds him of Izumi Ran. The violent sociopath, if he could possibly called that when he has proven himself in breaking a young girl's leg without hesitation or abusing that follower of his—Aoba. And Horada is just as action-first thinking-never as Izumi is with the violence intact and completing the image of the school bully untamed. A wild and unhindered by society type of violence that happens to be one of Izaya's favorites to observe and unfortunately at this time witness. Perhaps he can take it as a learning experience for more research to file away for later provoking and deconstructing human personality urges.

"Orihara, when did ya think you'd get away with this? Framing me, putting me in jail for a while?" Horada's foot bites his shoulder and that knife is digging into his throat again. Waiting for a silent answer, the look in Horada's eyes daring Izaya to speak when he knows clearly by now that it isn't the right choice if he wants to keep the pulse in his throat under control and not bleeding out on the floor. "Oh, you didn't, did you." Horada snorts and he flicks his hand, twirling the sledgehammer in his grasp and with a motion the heavy weight of the other rolls off of Izaya. "You had no idea in that messed up little head of yours that you'd be in this predicament. Well, I got better news for you, and you aren't gonna like 'em." The sneer on his face is disgusting, Izaya thinks. No passion, no life, just dead empty violence of revenge when he thinks it will actually get him somewhere.

He wants to speak up. Taunt him, insult him, prove him wrong.

But heavy words in an empty head don't weigh in.

The crack of the hammer striking the ground next to Izaya's head shudders throughout his skull. The floor beneath runs cracks and concrete breaks loose from the settlement in uneasy tension. A show of dominance, Izaya thinks to himself in grim amusement when he can't move despite not being sat upon by a lackey. In this display—no help, no distractions—Izaya can see the untamed anger of the human capability in one such as Horada. Examine him while taunting even if he is beneath the sledgehammer with arms stinging and numbing at an alarming rate. But all of this only serves to make Izaya's pulse start to thud louder in his ears with the flush of adrenaline biting through his veins. Moments like these are hard to come by without the proper stimulant. A drug of choice, perhaps, for an adrenaline addict like Izaya combining the pleasure of knowledge and one of his precious people.

All mixing for a dangerously addictive cocktail of pain and pleasure. Never as fun as watching Shizu-chan and his rages (they're not perfect because Shizu-chan can't possibly be human) with destruction and anger playing part. Though close enough with Horada's sneer and the two of them, seconds ticking by with the spread of Izaya's blood stinging his nose. Horada is only a case of maddening revenge and while without emotion is passionless repetitive motion, it does allow another chance to study the change in behavior. Every action, Izaya watches and records for later access, is a manner of the focus of revenge. Not even primal, just raging anger left unchecked and allowed in relevance to fear and superiority. Primal, in a way, but more the distinguished human trait of rage.

Like Shizu-chan.

And no light burns in Horada's eyes the way Shizu-chan's set on fire. "If I recall, Horada-kun, it isn't my fault you were arrested. You acted on your own behaviors instead of what I advised. Therefore my connection to your actions does not exist." Izaya challenges the angry eyes narrowing at him, smirk spreading across his lips and pulling them tight like a pull of a viper's fangs. He waits while the crack of the hammer against ground calls to him threateningly. Unfazed, he continues on. "But you want someone to take the blame for the punishment you deserved. Simply due to your lack of wanting to take responsibility for your explosive temper. You're not unlike a beast, Horada-kun." Angry angry angry—give him what he wants, Yellow Scarves-kun, and then watch as he unfolds into the perfect disharmony of temporary insanity.

Horada snarls, ripping a feral roar from his throat when he moves and the motions is just too quick for Izaya to move fast enough. The second he sees the sledgehammer moving Izaya makes to turn and push himself back out of harm's reach, but he forgets the most important rule of never forgetting all facets of the enemy's reach, twisting when in the milliseconds counting down to impending doom of live or regret Horada's foot stomping on his shoulder where the ligaments are stretched tightly. A guttural, broken noise of pain escapes Izaya's lips when he feels the boot pushing him down, squirming and it's too late when the sledgehammer comes down with the rise of Horada's smile. It is an ugly and inhuman smile with bared teeth and a taste for blood.

And unfortunately for Izaya, the explosion of bone, skin, and pulverized muscle comes with the fall of the sledgehammer on his left arm. Dragging down the disjointed limb with the swing connecting to the ground Izaya hears a scream tear through the air and buzz like a leaking gas line and an open lighter. Which he isn't aware of through the sudden dizzying rushes of adrenaline and pain spiking through his left arm previously purpling with numbness that his humerus has been crushed and Horada starts to laugh when Izaya realizes that the scream has somehow torn from his throat. It feels like boiling water rushing out of the broken skin with shards of bone in his peripheral vision, coursing and heart thundering in his chest to break against his ribs if he dares to breathe in faster or any more. Currently though he can feel every breath beneath his skin and the pulse of his heart in tandem with the rapid fire of blood pooling on the floor from his crushed arm where fingers still twitch in broken attempts as his nerves spasm.

"Don't you fucking dare, Orihara." Horada growls low and his foot digs into the dislocated shoulder, making Izaya's teeth snap right through his lip and blood begins to pool in his mouth. "Because this is your fucking fault. All of it." Sledgehammer dragging in front of Izaya's eyes he can see bits of blood and skin yet the urge to laugh bitterly at his own expense has suddenly died down in the raw scratching of his throat. It feels like he's holding in another scream when Horada presses his weight on his left shoulder. He wants to, even against his own judgment and better decisions which don't involve this insecure form of torture. Or information extraction. Even if this is simple revenge. He doesn't expect much more from Horada and doesn't dare to start. The only one that can manage to catch him off guard would be the blond brute.

Bones crunch under the force of the sledgehammer and his shoulder is creaking with a low moan that throbs like a heavy shudder. "Th-That's not polite, Horada-kun. After what I've done for you?" Izaya wheezes, winded more than usual and the pain is drugging his mind beyond his control quickly slipping. The desire to mock Horada and make him succumb to the insane desire of his own is still strong, even if it stings and bleeds out on the floor.

With the turn of blood like burnt copper filling the air with its scent the lackey to the side shifts and Izaya finds the flash of gold hair with a scarf not a coincidence. But a lovely, extraneous appearance of revenge that boils into bitterness.

"Shut the fuck up!" Horada's boot comes off of his shoulder and the pangs make Izaya wince, squirming once again though limited by his broken arm. "All you do is talk, Orihara! Nothing actually comes out of that mouth but bullshit!" So much anger Izaya can taste it like the blood on his tongue sliding over his teeth and pooling in his spit. The heady scent makes his head rush with empty air and bright lights contorting into shapes when he blinks. Another groan rasping on his breath when Horada's boot collides with his shoulder, jolting him back and then the boot slides under to his armpit and Izaya finds himself sprawled on his back and his broken arm thudding against the ground too hard and too painfully to keep from groaning.

His eyes sting. The addiction can't be helped. And the lone figure in the corner isn't expected but welcome in this game which catches Izaya's attention more than usual. Of course—the knife running down his spine is all too familiar now. Where else, if he was the one to teach the same amateur skills? Such a reunion is touching, if he isn't lying on the floor in his own blood and a sledgehammer is too close to him for his liking. "You're a parasite! A bloody fucking flea!"

_Oh?_

And then Horada's anger picks up that sledgehammer Izaya sees coming before it's too late. Which he tries to move, the urge to get out of the way as part of self-preservation while his brain is starting to shut down and focus on survival. A painful roll and a heavy gasp pitching higher when he stops ensures that the sledgehammer rocks against the concrete just where he was, right above the place where his spine would be.

Considering that his death would be violently painful as bones shatter from his spine to his ribs and puncture his major organs. Bleeding to death would be wracked with agony and a sledgehammer driving through the crater of his body and Izaya truly does marvel at the animosity present only for him. Horada is wild and viciously cruel, not unlike anything else he has seen before but hasn't had the unfortunate luxury of earning in a concentrated effort of actually kidnapping him. So he assumes Horada is thirsting for blood the same way he craves the rage and liveliness of Shizu-chan except in his humans.

Interesting, when they hung him earlier with hands twisting behind his head with a rope that was cut with the knife knocking against his spine. Two days and the torture is much more advanced than a simple hard punch to the stomach or jaw, leaving ugly bruises forming and blossoming like the cherry blossom tree season in Japan. Izaya faintly recalls it, watching the blond from the corner who stares and stares as though gaping at scenery or a horrifying sight. Only then to realize that he's covering himself in his own blood and tattered clothes and typically blood and bone shards don't go down the throat easily for digestion. Even Horada, wielding the hammer like a meat cleaver, is disgusted with his own handiwork of a design staining the floor from the spray pattern of blood from direct blunt force trauma and cracking bones.

Izaya also knows that with his arm not working he can bleed to death easily. Thinking too much of this and unable to move makes the next swing—Horada kicks him in the chin, teeth clicking back as his spine protests death one more time—crush his left hand and the growl from Izaya's throat becomes a shriek when every single bone in his left hand snaps under the pressure. On the ground he leaves a bloody print in the shape of his hand with splayed edges and freshly clotting, nerves on fire and stinging while Horada drags the hammer and swings again down unto Izaya's other hand and the same explosion of bone and skin while Izaya's throat is scratching raw and tired by the time he pulls the hammer away.

"Not so tough now, Orihara?" Horada chuckles at his handiwork, mocking Izaya lying on the floor and watching as the shock starts to set in with interesting accuracy and precision. Blood slowing heart failing silence that resumes and therefore leaves the most interesting part of the game out. "Hey, keep his hands out. Pin 'em to the ground." What Izaya doesn't know—figure moving from the corner and away from Izaya's field of vision in an interesting twitch—is that the swish and catch of knives being released from a spring lock means exactly what Horada has asked. Not until the weight is on his spine again and one pocket knife stabs through one hand and digs into the ground with a scream and the other hand follows suit. He can't see can't tell can't do anything useful besides try and pretend the noise of a dying animal isn't from his throat while Horada's grin only widens when hiding disgust at maybe his own humanity. Izaya's bruising eyes make it impossible to see now, relying on hearing while pulses of his hands echo throughout his body in heavy shudders.

The weight is still on his back. "Orihara!" Eyes don't open when his head is on the ground and the pounding white noise is roaring loud over the sounds of survival instinct and Horada's annoying buzz. "You see what happens, Orihara? You fuck with the wrong people, and you're fucked!" What does he mean by this Izaya isn't sure he knows exactly the full extent until fingers are on his belt and his mind is starting another wailing siren of alarm. No, no, no, no, this isn't happening now and not here.

He counts down in the silence of one part agony and two or ten parts frustration, anger, and finding this aggravating when kicked down. A foot on his spine, threatening teasingly to crush when the weight on his back shifts and rocks to stretch and tear the weeping cuts all over him. Drag in dirt and etch the scream that may or may not be building in his throat (all for nothing seeing as he is not this fucking pathetic) when the stinging is hot knives dipping through sinewy muscles and tendons to scratch and hollow out the surface of bones. Fill them with disgust and the knife that slips underneath his belt and hooks as his windpipe is slowly being crushed. And then he realizes his hands are stabbed in the fucking ground which means it can't possibly get any worse. Oh yes, he knows from experience of being behind the scenes when interrogations, dealings, or business runs foul and reeks of dried blood like fights with Shizu-chan and successful hits.

"Any last words?" A choice few in which curses are only the beginnings of how much his fingers—deadening in numbness and pooling blood as they are, trembling with false frostbite. "No?" Horada sneers and Izaya feels himself choking with not only the pressure of Horada's shoe but a sledgehammer striking the ground next to his ear and the threat of black spots lacing into his vision. It hurts and the rush of agony is intolerable at this point when all he feels is the eyes of amusement in twisted merriment and detrimental enjoyment. They want to watch him scream, he knows, so he bites his lip through the punctures of his teeth from before when the belt slices in half from the pocket knife attached to the weight on his legs slowly becoming numb while he gives a testing kick.

Just to see what happens and try to ruin his hands bleeding out. His left arm doesn't look too good (and the world is spinning and tilting on all sides like drunken nights of the same wanting to play a game but maybe not end in running too far and losing again) and blood stings down his throat and rubs his brain raw with sandpaper and dusting of drying flakes from his nose threatening to crack. Jaw and cheekbone already bruising violently Izaya feels the echoing throb of his heartbeat start to shudder and murmur inconsolably when boyish grasping fingers hardened with calluses pull at his skin-tight jeans and demand for more than Izaya has to spare.

"Isn't this..." Izaya spits blood from underneath Horada's boot and it gurgles and catches in his throat, clawing for a way out and mixing with mucous clogging anywhere to breathe from. No duct tape required. "Isn't this...enough, Ho—" stop stop _stop_ when eyes are glaring down at him and fingers are grasping the bare flesh tugged free of jeans cutting off his legs when the tip of the pocket knife slides down the backs of his legs. "Y-Yellow Scarves-san?" Wheezing when he can suddenly gulp in more air damp with blood, Horada must be satisfied enough to lift his boot from Izaya's spine and pull the sledgehammer back to his side. On Izaya's back he feels opening cuts oozing blood down the entirety of his legs and resists the urge to shudder when satisfaction isn't given so easily. Not without a cost and without formalities of payment for information when this is only a revenge-type argument that is supposed to leave Izaya broken.

They can try all they want.

"What's wrong now, begging, Orihara?" Horada twirls the sledgehammer and remarks the clean glisten of blood staining the sides that matches the floor oozing together in puddles of shiny reflections from ceiling lights. "That doesn't sound like the guy I know." Kneeling down to his level and Izaya feels fingers grasping the bare flesh of his ass and hisses audibly. "Because the asshole I know is a fucking manipulative piece of shit. You know him? His name's Orihara Izaya," and that sledgehammer rests dangerously close to Izaya's right hand which triggers the involuntary flinch, pull, and recede with churning hatred mixing with pain."And he's a classic motherfucker. Screwed me right over without blinking." Something zips and with each metallic clink Izaya's brain is forcing itself to become more reactive than calm and collected when this isn't supposed to be happening and he's not—hard skin pulsing with its own beat and veins tracing back brushing in the crevice of his ass and he knows what this is. It doesn't mean he wants it or will just simply let this happen to him.

"And you," Izaya lifts his head, tugging ripping pulling and stifling the shriek that wants to sob its way out when muscles clench around the knives embedded in his hands and pull them from the ground, lifting to grasp with fumbling fingers leaking heavily with blood. Horada doesn't fucking know that he's an idiot and simply a pawn that's wasted when both knives are digging harshly into the flesh of his throat and there is a gasp behind him that freezes and tenses like the thighs holding him to the ground. "Are breaking the rules." Izaya knows that he sounds like a beast but he's sure not even Shizu-chan competes with this level of atrocity and animosity mixing on the floor with his blood. For what he knows and is clear in the spotting black is the knife against his throat when he pushes two of them with a force fueled with some kind of hatred and shaking unsteady fingers.

His veins, he sees, bulge in broken skin when he watches the blades sink into Horada's skin and hears the screaming against his eardrums. The knife at his throat is almost fitting enough for the desire to see blood and flesh and Horada on the floor with that mocking sneer twisted from a permanent adjustment by the sledgehammer at his side—Izaya knows all too well that these thoughts are unnatural for a god such as himself reigning above his humans.

This type, then, is simply one that he loves even less.

And he remembers this when Horada crumples and something hot rips into his skin and impales him with throbbing flesh, blood, and the irony of being taken when finally losing too much blood. He shudders, chokes on a cough and feels the urge to vomit blood when the _thing_ ripping him apart from the inside (is this really what he thinks it is because he's going to vomit anyway whether or not there is his blood for lubricant and he's running dry) and pulses when that same pocket knife digs in his throat.

It's enough watching Horada convulse as he falls into a dead faint with shouts fading like the last few breaths he stumbles over.

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><p>It's not so much a matter of waking from some time later to now as it is remembering that a very special guest has strung him up, once again, with the same dislocated shoulders and he may never be able to use them again. Which sets his mind to work on thinking how to wriggle out again and not cause too much damage for even Shinra to fix despite many losing battles to Shizu-chan and the frustrated disappointment for his own side completely absent now. This isn't Shizu-chan that he's facing against this time, however. Blond hair, angry eyes, but disgusted with himself when Izaya cracks open a swelling eye and the other feels empty like a jarred socket.<p>

When he opens to breathe the sly greeting forced under the folds of mocking curt warning of _"Kida-kun"_, Izaya finds that his voice is no longer there.

Instead of gasping like a fish out of water and the informant happens to hate the eyes of dead fish like the ones right in front of him. Angry, but dead and dull. Boring to look at when Kida-kun isn't even trying to act angry. Apologetic like a lost kicked puppy and Izaya distinctly remembers the pain tearing him apart. But also that he isn't bleeding, which is an interesting aspect to it all. In mustering quiet silence with the narrowing eyes that express enough distaste to make it clear to Kida what exactly he means to say.

"I-Izaya-san..." Kida coughs, wringing his hands and now has the appearance of a lost kicked puppy set on fire. How amusing, but not enough for Izaya to simply forgive why he is here in the first place or the fact his eyelids feel heavy with sedatives. His entire is numb with dull throbbing not at the surface but beneath and radiating with aggravating recurrences. As well as the same with Kida's eyes narrowing in definite remembrance to feeling and anger that boils over. "I hate you." And here he is: the original _Yellow Scarves-kun_. Not fair in that Izaya can't muster the voice lost in his bruising throat and the possible break of his hyoid bone which would explain the feeling of never enough oxygen to breathe through his mouth in rough pants. Kida is trembling with barely-contained rage which is entirely directed at Izaya who at another time would like to study the angry reaction and save for later. File away for the city in his mind and situations to orchestrate the next time information becomes important again. Only when he isn't suffocating, possibly bleeding to death, and defiled with the rip and tear of being raped in unconsciousness. Oh, he does know this.

And then Kida does the unexpected: cuts him down with a pocket knife in his hand, Izaya remembering the feel on his legs and over his spine. One knee sticks out to catch Izaya and make a face that isn't annoyed with the groan that Izaya emits, but two hands move to one shoulder that happens to be his left. At this point Izaya is nearly about to commit the same act against Horada as he did earlier he sees white completely wrapped around his arm and set in a stiff splint. In which Kida takes the advantage of Izaya not paying attention to pop the shoulder back into its socket and listen to the gasp that comes and the stamp of a weak foot against the ground. One more pop with another shoulder and Izaya is groaning and panting for air as Kida watches him crumple to the ground. Defeating the legendary informant who happens to be the source of all this anger. Rage, fury, and while not as uncontrolled as Horada who took over for the...gruesome parts of taking the informant's dignity with blood lubricant, unconsciousness, and a cocktail of a power trip and arousal, it doesn't settle with him in the same jagged edges. In actuality of never telling the informant this useless information, he almost feels ill.

But then he doesn't. "I hate you, Izaya-san." he growls, snarling at the raised eyebrow and the eyes sparking the flint in which he knows is Izaya's amusement. He feels the urge rising in his veins and choking with its grasp of wanting to wipe the smirk permanently off his face. Show Izaya that he isn't the idiot Horada was who doesn't bother now, stabbed and Kida later may find him somewhere alive or somewhere not. They don't get along and never have except for the common hatred of Orihara Izaya. It isn't him either who plans this entire thing but takes over when Horada has no place here now. He gets first bait: Kida gets the prize. And Izaya can be hung and strung along until he becomes just as used and abused as Kida has been. An eye for a soul that Izaya can't guarantee if he's not even human. With eyes that flicker up at him, heavy and drugged with tiny flecks of anger seeping in. Even with all the privilege he has of Kida bandaging him and treating his wounds so he doesn't bleed to death the informant is too prideful to admit gratitude.

Fingers find themselves winding into Izaya's ripped shirt at the collar and pulling him forward to make Izaya fall against Kida's thigh, wrenching his chin to look up into the eyes that will be permanently implanted whenever he closes them. "I hate you for everything you've done." Hoarse rasps of breaths humming beside Kida, he decides that listening to Izaya being too human is too much. Toppling the god-king from his board game Kida snaps Izaya's head back with a tightening grip on his blood-matted hair, pressing him against his leg and lips curling in an ugly sneer. His hatred is becoming him and the best is he doesn't even know that this can be all carefully expected as Izaya waits for them—whoever is here, going by the echoes of voices and the window in the front of the room—to succumb to the greed, envy, and wrath that takes them and twists their human sides.

"Beg, Izaya." Kida snaps in warning. Izaya's eyes are on him and he hates the feeling of heavy weights and in turn knocks the informant back, uncaring of the bruising swollen arms. "Because no one will hear you now." Knife against a bruised throat he pushes Izaya on the ground, sitting on the knife wounds inflicted on his abdomen in the satisfaction of watching Izaya's face contort in sharp inhales. Above him Kida grinds his hips into Izaya's forcing more painful gasps to escape when his back arches and he squirms to get away. Bruised and injured hands make it easy when Izaya doesn't even have pants, hands pulling down his own jeans and revealing a flaccid penis (he's not aroused by this and he should be if this is Izaya and the effect is without the blood and reek of wounds) to which Izaya regards with suspicion. Good for him finally figuring this out.

"Either you suck, or you can get it raw." Kida hisses, pulling Izaya's head forward when he notices the unfocused eyes for a split second while Izaya hesitates on the urge of spitting. Without a voice, he realizes, Izaya isn't as devastating. The hand-shaped bruises on his throat and the hesitant press of muscles when he tries to swallow make it clear that the informant has no room to speak.

He wants to see the anger. Wants to see those eyes leaking blood just like their color and bask in the one being able to make Izaya this way. "What are you waiting for? Start sucking." Shoving his penis is Izaya's face isn't a sight he gets to see and the smallest rebelling part of his mind—stop it. Izaya deserves this, he reassures easily while he moves back and pulls Izaya up and over him with his dick in front of his mouth. Eyes narrow in an amused glare, nothing coming from bloodied lips when Izaya's suddenly wrap around the head of Kida's dick and the blond has to stifle the moan that threatens to boil over. He can't watch (doesn't want to see the source of his own blinding anger) but he forces himself to as Izaya licks and sucks, ignoring the feel of blood from opened sores in Izaya's mouth that slide thickly over his penis.

Kida moans, unable to keep the sounds from the pulses of pleasure wrongly deserved from staying silent with the thrum in his veins. Izaya beneath him is thankfully silent for once, sucking and saliva dribbling down his bruising chin with subdued anger in his bruising eyes. Another hard suck and the tongue at the tip of his dick forces another moan, thrusting into the same heat of Izaya's mouth and catching the gag that sounds. Saliva down Izaya's lips and on Kida's penis is tinted pink and thick with dehydration but Kida forces himself deeper instead of pretending to care while Izaya chokes again and broken fingers clench at the ground.

The grip in his hair is threatening as it hangs overhead and waits for Izaya to stop or bite without permission, resulting in the snap of his neck wrenched backwards if Kida allows for it.

Never has he felt this much control before—it's overwhelming and exciting and tastes like the danger of blood in the air the same tint as Izaya's eyes. Drying quickly and clotting with sticky saliva like the brush of skin against Izaya's teeth and a silent warning that Kida glares down onto him. If looks could kill, Kida would only be hitting him. Izaya would set fire to them all, going by the anger and rising humiliation of the punishment for a deceitful king. Rightfully disinherited, Kida continues to tell himself in order to let his erection last. He can't soften now, or he'll let Izaya know how much this affects him. It's suicide in guilty pleasure.

Enough. "Off." Kida pulls Izaya's head back, almost jerking the informant off with painful applied pressure. From swollen lips his dick falls, covered in saliva and hands push Izaya away quickly before Kida can let him see how close he is to coming. And with a thump that is not as satisfying as the anger that flares on Izaya's face he falls on his front, letting out a breathy whine of complaint. Only moments of hesitation before Kida is peeling off the underwear, on top of and like a bitch to be tamed he mounts Izaya and leaves no room to scream. The next moment that comes and Izaya flinches in a full body shudder that feels like a death rattle Kida is inside of Izaya, thrusting hard and he watches as Izaya spasms and claws at the floor. As broken as his fingers are he's not getting anywhere further than the silence that comes in hitched breaths.

He moans with the thrusts that come, unabashed in watching Izaya contort and clench around him and it feels deliciously wrong, tearing the scabs that come from yesterday and feeling the blood leak onto him. Pulsing heat and the slick feel adds only more to ease the friction, sliding in and out as the blood puddles on the floor and Izaya continues to be defiled so _easily._ He knows exactly what he's getting in to but the groans are hard to bite on and his blood doesn't taste the same as the one soaking Izaya's pale skin. And it's a curious thought he could care about some other time. But for now is the tight, wet heat of blood and saliva and pre-come sliding out from his tip and smearing the insides as his thrusts grow rougher.

Which reminds him—"No coming, or I'll cut your dick off." Grabbing his hair and pulling the black head back with a tug, biting Izaya's ear and the clench is utterly satisfying in return. What he's doing he's not thinking about so much as the pleasure that's slowly building in his gut, forgetting everything and everyone else and that this is Izaya in front of him he's fucking. Lubricant of blood, saliva, and his own pre-come when he'd never think about this—don't think about it don't do it no no no—

"Ah, fuck!" Kida feels his own orgasm coming, very much aware of it and letting it happen as it starts to rapidly build and his thrusts get harder and harder. Beneath him he thinks he hears a whine and digs his fingers into Izaya's spine and ass. "Nnn—!" Up and up and up until it's like a heavy breath after being underwater for far too long and he's coming, waves crashing down and with a sigh clenched between teeth and possibly not regret he fills the parasitic informant.

Blood slips on the floor with white come when he pulls out. "This is only the beginning, Izaya-_kun._"

Izaya goes still, pinned to the floor and whether or not he's aroused Kida doesn't concern himself. Simply tucks himself back in his pants and leaves without another glance.

Checkmate.

* * *

><p><em>I discovered kink meme, and this happened. If you want to find the original, it's on page six of part twelve. I do warn you that this isn't going to be pretty. Also, happy sixth anniversary on Fanfiction to me. How has it been so long I don't know.<br>_

_See a spelling mistake? Let me know, please.  
><em>

_Thank you for reading._


	2. Intent in Convenience

The stench of cigarettes is something to live with when the nicotine rush is the one he needs the most. Right after his phone buzzes with a new text from Celty, who he hasn't seen nor heard of in days. [Hey, have you seen Izaya? He hasn't been around in a while.] Which shouldn't concern him when he doesn't give a fuck one way or another about the shitty flea, but decides to grumble to himself and accept the fate of texting back.

[Shizuo Heiwajima: Haven't seen him. What do you want with the asshole anyway?] Considerably a blessing that Izaya hasn't been around to torment him and destroy Ikebukuro in what has now possibly been two or three days. Maybe more, but he doesn't care as long as it's quiet.

Buzz. [It's been a week, and Shinra doesn't know where he is. Usually he says something, but this is odd even for him.] Wait—is she supposed to care about the shitty flea now all of a sudden? Shizuo's eyes narrow behind blue sunglasses, off work and certainly uncaring of whatever the fuck Izaya decides to do with his free time. What's it to her, anyway? Who would possibly care for the troll like him?

[Shizuo Heiwajima: Don't care. Hell if I know.] And he expects the usual reply pertaining to _of course you don't_ from Celty and raises his cigarette slowly cracking in his fingers to take another drag. More, because nicotine does little for even thinking of the flea. He's also curious, somewhat guiltily in his own mind, of why Celty is asking him now of all times with the prior knowledge of not giving a damn.

Celty's texts are far too quick for his peace of mind. Slowly they start to crumble his cigarette and the plastic of his phone creaks dangerously. [I know. But...if you find out, would you text me? Shinra's not sure why he's been quiet for so long, and it even makes me nervous.] And fair enough it would for anyone who knows of what Izaya is capable of. To which the thought already snaps Shizuo's cigarette and he smashes it beneath a shoe, huffing with smoke tendrils lazily expelling from his mouth in what he knows is going to be a long night if he has to think about this.

He's not _concerned_ at all. Just frustrated when he has to respond to these kinds of inquiries when Izaya isn't important at all. Good riddance and if he knows what's good for him, he won't bother coming back. [Shizuo Heiwajima: The louse will show up soon enough. I don't know what he's planning.] And Shizuo doesn't like this at all. Celty need not know, however.

It stays with the same conscience for another week of silence stretched tight like duct tape.

If only they knew.

* * *

><p>It must be hilariously funny to them when they watch Izaya squirm the first few days. Cough, gag, and choke on penises thrust in his mouth after Kida's turn, always first, wanting to tame a bitch just like he has and do it while the informant's throat remains ever-bruising. They don't watch when Kida has his turn of the day, knowing to respect the leader while Horada is always the one to stand out. A knife wound close to his jugular and another in his shoulder clipping a collarbone and he hasn't been in a good mood at all for a week. The second week comes by with his return, angry and refusing to look at Kida despite the deal they have without hating each other as preconceived casualties for actions made in hostility. For this week Izaya's fingers have been reset and broken enough times that the scars forming on his hands reopened several times <em>without<em> permission and devastating consequences for everybody in the small group of thugs. Horada decides that this time, he wants to make it more personal than the last.

Horada wonders if they hang Izaya with arms twisting behind his back and above his head for mockery or just for giggles. Watching the devilish informant the first few days is more fun when he struggles and bites his lips to keep the sounds from filling the room. So then they've decided that hearing Izaya beg and cry for mercy sounds better, and then his fingers end up broken and set endless times afterward. But they haven't realized like the children they are, that when they continue to break and stretch and pull until the crucified demon with the looks of an angel—ha, very funny—can't keep making those lovely sounds anymore. If anything, his throat bleeds and bruises under fingers and hands printing like polka-dots in shades of purple, red, blue, black, and some yellow borders.

Slapping Izaya awake from his fishhook Horada feels Izaya spit on him, lips curling in a silent snarl while his entire body is trembling. Kida's right beside Horada, feeling the splatter of blood and saliva with a water bottle in hand meant to actually give the informant water. Being neglectful isn't what he prides himself on but with Izaya, these two weeks of switching personalities for Saki, the group, and here, is like developing bipolar disorder. And if he dares to think about what Izaya, either hanging on a fishhook or being beaten to near death and revived again, reeking of semen and dried blood with the edge of infection, he can't and doesn't want to wrap his mind around it.

"Fuck you too." Horada's fist slams against the side of Izaya's face before he wrenches away and before Kida can stop him. Izaya's smile that comes with broken skin on his lips is bloody and dried, just like the anger in his eyes. Quietly seething Kida begins to think he is when his eyes are open enough now to glare at them. His throat isn't healing when he's strangled by jumpy hands and adrenaline mixing with testosterone rushing through their veins. Although for Kida, he doesn't classify himself as one of the idiots in the group that comes to take their turns on beating Izaya or raping him, knowing the rules Kida sets.

Kida, as he sees himself, is above them. He is their leader and they obey him first. And if he says Izaya doesn't get to ever come when he's raped, then his word is law. So he watches as they carry out each command, feeling the pride that slowly loses the heavy weight of perhaps guilt and empathy—there is _nothing_ for Izaya to grasp on to—when he feels the power surge in his veins. Even as the blood-tinged spit trickles down Izaya's chin or Kida's dick, all he can think about is the surge of achievement that comes when Izaya is slowly breaking apart in front of him. Maybe it's the torture, though, when Kida participates in pulling Izaya's fingernails off one by one, blindfolded and knives pressed to his eyes by another when Kida commands him to cry. He wants to see Izaya cry, even if it's a show and _very_ convincing because it means in whatever childish or stupid means that he wins. He wins this stupid game and his revenge is only better when Izaya cries on command.

Otherwise, this is all so tedious.

"Does the bitch need a blindfold?" Horada asks, whipping out a pocket knife and pressing beneath Izaya's left eye, watching the twitch in reaction with sadistic amusement. On command or simply by trained technique of finally getting the blindfold off soaked with salty liquid the red eyes become mysteriously wet. While Horada finds this amusing and wants to go further, Kida holds out a hand to stop him. It's not fun if he gets what he wants only in the beginning—Izaya knows how to please and learns quickly. A good and a bad thing, if looking for the sparks of anger to start a wildfire and revel in the rage of when Izaya convulses on the floor when stabbed to tighten his ass with two dicks possibly shoving in and ripping the skin apart. "What the fuck, man?" Horada grumbles, reluctantly stepping back while Kida steps forward, holding the water bottle to Izaya's eye level and watching the red eyes widen marginally.

Kida knows he wants the water. Needs it after a couple days too many of going without. Food hasn't been spared either, but he can't let the fun die of dehydration just yet. "You want a drink?" Shaking the water bottle Izaya's eyes pretend not to follow the movement but Kida can clearly see—even an idiot like Horada can. And hold back a snicker poorly while Kida maintains his composure. "Open your mouth, eyes closed." An indignant glare, challenging Kida's authority and newly found and kept in strengthening development when Izaya can barely move. The pain he's in (Kida tells himself that the bastard deserves it all and more, no matter the screams that gurgle in his throat after too much) is unbearable as the will to fight Kida in all its untamed glint is slowly starting to fade. Which bothers him, but he says nothing when he raises the water bottle and uncaps it when Izaya follows, easily learning. Slivers of his eyes still watch him and that's fine for now; Kida doesn't care when this is only for his amusement. _His_ revenge for himself—for Saki.

(But this, the smallest voice whispers in the corner of his mind, is not what Saki would have wanted.)

Horada watches, almost dumbfounded and stupidly as he can with Kida holding the lip of the bottle above Izaya's parted lips, cracking at the seams and crusted with dried blood (maybe a hint of white that's sticky and left from a bad clean-up job Kida will need to hastily give consequence to) and the first drips stick to Izaya's tongue like tar. His throat moves, brokenly, with the small drops of water that Kida filters from the bottle and watches Izaya in this moment of bared weakness. If he pulls out his pocket knife now, he could kill Izaya easily. Actually, he could kill Izaya at any time.

But he doesn't want to. Not when the informant is in the palm of his hand and perhaps it's not all his doing to grab him from his power in the first place, toppling the game board and knocking all the pieces off the table. Though he gladly takes the roll of pretending to be the new king. His pride keeps him like that, watching warm water dribble through and slip over lips and tongue like air to suffocating lungs.

"Don't spill," he warns, slowing the drips and Izaya sighs in frustration quietly. "Or you don't get any more." Again the water starts to spill and Horada is pouting with boredom of watching the informant be treated like a dog, seeing no point unless if blood is spilling or there are screams piercing the air, which he hasn't been rewarded with no matter what he does. If he breaks bones, Izaya doesn't make a sound. The inside of his mouth, however, is another story from broken hisses to yelps and shrieks that don't exist in an informant's vocabulary when his bones break and nails pull or the hilt of a knife is shoved up his—Suddenly Izaya coughs, and the water bottle drops on the floor by Kida's own doing.

Eyes snap open, irritated, red, and dry when he sees the water bottle on the floor and lips purse because they both know he wants more. Too bad. Yet he watches the water spill on the floor almost helplessly and the different light in his eyes that Kida catches is strangely beautiful to him. Helpless. Wanting. Needing. And all Kida wants is to see more, taking it into the palm of his hand then slowly with fingers carefully wrapping around each and every tendril, squeezing until it suffocates and bleeds between the gaps of his fingers. All his doing, if he considers the madness in total of the idea.

He turns to Horada, knowing the glimmer of want for the bloodlust in his eyes that are dead. Most of the thugs have nothing in them and Kida finds himself questioning why. "Don't get him dirty and don't kill him." he murmurs darkly as a warning, turning to move away from Horada and sitting on the windowsill of the two-way window. Horada on the other hand immediately strikes out, grabbing Izaya's chin and underneath the hyoid bone, gripping tightly while the action even makes Kida jump and Izaya choke when Horada leans his head in to growl in his face. Angry at the bloody saliva and the stab wounds all from Izaya, but refusing to notice or care that Izaya has seen much better days.

"I bet you're happy to see me again, you little bitch." Horada sneers, tightening his fingers and searching for a reaction. Izaya stares on, empty-eyed and almost unaware that he's there. It's almost the same feeling as the empty scoop of Kida's chest that's been cut out and while hanging on a thread almost to reassure his own humanity, he can't see Izaya and it's all his fault. Whoever is hanging on the hook, he's starting to realize, is not the same informant he wants to torture and exact revenge from while Saki recuperates stubbornly in a hospital. "Hey! I said listen to me, you fucker!" Horada moves to slam Izaya's head into the wall, uncaring of the bloodstain already there and finally relishing when those eye squeeze shut and teeth click and scratch. The bruises on his throat are only multiplying at this rate. "Wake up, rabid bitch! You're not in your cozy little office anymore, are ya?" Horada snarls, tugging Izaya off from the wall and shoving him on the ground carelessly. Kida's spinning his pocket knife in his hands, torn between wanting to warn Horada not to break his toy and waiting patiently for what happens.

He already knows, going by the stench of salt and blood in the air. Even if they've cleaned the place _and_ Izaya, he knows intimately from having set the examples and training his little puppies to wrap around his finger, forgetting when maybe it's time to slow down and realize that he sounds like a psychopath when he finds only pleasure in watching others rape and torture Izaya with him present. He's a high school student—disconnected from the world—Mikado and Anri-chan can _never_ know what he's doing in the mornings or afternoons of bringing an informant to his knees and making him suck, fuck, and ride with tears down his cheeks. Commanded like a good dog and Kida's slowly starting to lose touch with reality until the very moments of meeting up with Saki again. And then comes the guilt after Izaya stops showing any signs of being himself. Quiet, desolate, and why isn't he _angry__!?_

"Come on! Get angry at me!" Horada's shouting and it pulls Kida from his lost reality and back to where he is, watching as Izaya bleeds on the floor and chokes and spits blood from being kicked in the head again. At this rate he looks nauseous and Kida thinks he has a concussion from all the kicks he's endured. Kida watches closely as Izaya's body jerks, motionless and barely a sliver of strength to pull into himself when he's aching and bruising all over. His left arm hasn't healed at all in the span of a week, nor have his fingers or the scars turning in his hands if they keep getting reopened when some idiot decides to pin him to a wall with his hands and feet stabbed in the ironic position of crucifixion.

"What's wrong now, asshole!? Can't lunge at me and try to rip my throat open like last time!" Horada's chanting, sitting on Izaya now and choking him to hear the gurgles and watch broken fingers curve when he grasps for the floor. But he suddenly grows bored when Izaya's eyes threaten to slide shut, releasing him and digging a hand into a revealed stab wound on his stomach while the other hand searches through his pockets. Disgust smears across Horada's face when he realizes how ugly Izaya is, covered in bruises and bleeding everywhere. Sure he doesn't care if the informant dies, but this isn't going how he wants it to.

A lone cigarette and a lighter in hand, Horada shoves them in Izaya's face and dangles them between two fingers tauntingly as if those dull eyes are going to care. They should, if he has the same thought process as Horada. "Look, bitch," digging fingers into swollen flesh he enjoys the cringe that brings the attention back to his face away from the lighter and cigarette, unmoving when Horada wipes the blood off on Izaya's destroyed shirt. "You might want to start being interesting now, or you're going to find yourself burning for more." Laughing at his own joke Horada puts the cigarette between lips, flicking the lighter once, twice, and taking a deep inhale of the burning tobacco. Izaya's not putting it together yet until Horada releases the smoke in Izaya's face and watches eyes blink and try to turn away.

Kida surprises himself when he watches it—_lets_ it happen. The cigarette sizzling a circular burn into Izaya's collarbone and watching the jolt and arch of trying to get away when Izaya feel the fire on his skin and his mouth is open, hitching on air. And another drag as Horada starts to laugh, nearly stubbing out the cigarette on the next burn to Izaya's bruised throat and by this time he thinks he hears a high-pitched squeak, bloody tongue clicking in the informant's mouth over air and forcing his voice down that could possibly be there. Another drag, curling smoke and breath reeking of impending doom, Izaya squirming uselessly when his throat is burned and singed again and his back arching higher despite the pull it has on the cuts and stabs stretching tight.

It continues on several more times with each starting to buzz in Kida's ears. It's annoying, so he calls out when Izaya's temple is burned and the thrashing ceases as blood starts to tinge the air once more. "Horada, knock it off." Even surprising himself when Horada doesn't listen and doesn't even look at him, preferring to admire his handiwork until Kida pushes himself up, and the pocket knife in his hand is suddenly twirling and sticks on the floor, wobbling carefully when embedding in the ground covered by Horada's pants. Now he has attention and he's commanding it. "Get off. You can go wait or watch, I don't care."

Cigarette clenched in his teeth, Horada rolls his eyes and removes the knife. "Fine, fine, have it your way." A hand moves to another pocket and Kida readies to throw another and not miss his target this time. "Just let me have a little fun, why don't you?" Horada grumbles, holding what looks like a container of—

Salt.

This looks interesting, especially when Izaya's eyes widen in recognition and suddenly Kida can see the survival instinct running haywire when Horada tips the container, letting white grains fall onto Izaya and then he hears it: a croaking, scraping cry from Izaya when salt inevitably falls into his open wounds. Horada's hand is moving then when salt rubs and pushes into every open wound uncovered and Kida finds himself watching when squeaks force themselves pushing up and clawing out of Izaya's throat that sound like amateur shrieks or yelps of agony when he himself knows what salt in a wound feels like. Not intentionally, however, and it's what makes him watch when Horada pours more into the cigarette burns and holds his hand like a deliverer of fate, cupping salt and watching it pour into Izaya's wounds and fingers dig in to rub it in further.

Kida is curious if Izaya registers the humiliation of still writhing and choking when Horada stops, getting off of him and deciding that Kida's knife looks better planted in his foot—and from that Kida hears the phantom of another scream, tearing Izaya's throat raw when his eyes are wide open and doesn't believe that it can't get any worse. Now is the time where it's lucky that they have coagulants so Izaya can't bleed to death when the steady stream of blood flows from the wound and he knows he's going to punish Horada later, be it with a lit cigarette or a head into the wall. Izaya doesn't need to know when it's him that is meant to be tortured.

But oh, can it get worse. "Go." Kida commands, unwavering and doesn't wait for Horada to leave when he moves over to Izaya, studying the agonized face and the anger that starts to liven up once again. Just as soon as Horada skulks away with an obvious hole in the front of his pants, Kida leans over Izaya and settles his hips on Izaya's bony ones. The withering look from below is just as powerful as it is when he's not covered in his own blood, but Kida covered and backed by knowing there's little Izaya can do (not wanting to think about what he can when this ends) to throw him off or injure him. But he knows his lesson from watching Horada, seeing the bandage on his throat and knowing how easily it could be him. It does little to make him wont to have pity for the devil beneath him.

"Izaya-kun," Kida addresses him curtly, waiting for those red eyes to focus on him and sees the pupils as wide as they are with the pain curling behind them in ashen traces. "You're going to ride me. Get up, or I won't take the knife out." The instant glare he receives is one promising a slow and painful death, perhaps even buried alive and Kida finds this even more to the slowly-growing arousal pooling in his groin. Before he lets Izaya off, he calls to Horada. "Get the bandages and water. Pull the knife out of his foot." He hears the scoff of complaint but knows that Horada follows willingly like the troublesome puppy he is. It takes one two three—seconds when Horada pulls the knife, letting it clatter to the floor even though Kida's back is turned because he knows that the men watching are loyal like well-trained dogs. More blood starts to puddle and Kida makes a point of avoiding it, pulling Izaya over while he himself sits on the concrete floor and with a crooked finger, beckoning the unwilling informant to crawl toward him.

But it's infinitely painful with the salt rubbing wounds raw and some starting to leak with yellow pus on the ground when Izaya rolls in on himself, careful of the broken left arm that hasn't healed and salt rubbing whenever he does. Watching him squirm is like ants under a microscope and slowly being crushed by the sample glass to cage them in. Fondly recalling a middle school biology project of dissecting a live frog and watching it croak and squeal as there isn't any anesthetic for a frog. But Kida finds that Izaya is more of a slug, slowly drying up with salt and oozing with pus and blood and saliva from a hanging jaw and his entire body is alive with tremors.

"Get moving, Izaya-kun." Kida mentions with a not-so-gentle jab of his foot to Izaya's right arm, watching as Izaya loses his balance and falls into a puddle of his own blood, soaking everywhere. At this point the door opens and Horada comes back with the required supplies, but also an unmarked red canister that Kida makes a point of to question later. From Izaya's blood-matted hair he can see gashes on the back of his head, even daring to dip into the nape of his neck and dotted with traces of fingernails and old cigarette burns. So, Kida narrows his eyes in contempt, he's already known what cigarettes feel like on broken skin.

Izaya collapses on the floor, smearing blood and pus and curling in on his side that doesn't have a stab wound above his hip, burning with salt and from his eyes Kida can see oozing wetness that trails down his cheeks. It's the first time that he's not commanded for his own sadistic amusement of wanting to break the informant, finding it previously impossible, but this makes it so _easy_ when he's already breaking down. Although Kida does admire how long he's held on so far, seeing as he's not giving up now but simply curling in on the pain of salt rubbing and exhaustion beginning to set in. If he doesn't know any better he could easily kill Izaya with the neglect alone and with the open wounds—namely the sores of missing fingernails bleeding yellow and ulcers developing—and watching when he treats the wounds himself at the end of each day, knowing the look of pain that comes from dumping rubbing alcohol on open sores and forcing down antibiotics.

It's all so mesmerizing to witness Izaya breaking apart, wound by wound and tugging at his mind with little sleep and no water. "Izaya-kun, you're testing my patience." Bored already Kida sits up, grasping Izaya's bloodied hair and marveling at how greasy it has become and sticky from its usual gloss, frail with lack of nutrients and it still has its pull on Izaya's head when he tugs harshly. Izaya rises up with the pulling, a soft groan on his lips and Kida never lets any of them kiss him, saving it for never because of those lies Izaya spreads with his mouth. It's only for sucking and licking semen when Kida comes in him and the twist of his expression when he's forced to drink what comes from his abused ass. Izaya collapses between Kida's knees and nearly in a dead faint at this point, Horada silently fixing up the knife wound that has gone all the way through the bruising foot and pours rubbing alcohol over it. It lights Izaya with electricity, trembling and shaking when his fingers claw at his palms and he has no sound to voice the cry that twists his tongue.

Kida's tired of waiting. "Suck, Izaya." Fingers circling a fresh cigarette burn Izaya doesn't dare look up at him like a bitch surrendering to its place. Izaya's right hand steadies himself and remembers not to touch Kida, as per the rules, lowering his mouth to the open zipper and carefully licking the head of the beading tip. The shudder that travels through Kida reverberates in Izaya's mouth, thrusting upward for Izaya to hurry the fuck up and not keep him waiting while he's hard. If sees Izaya covered in his blood and smells the rust of anger and frustration it'll turn him off faster than Izaya screams when he's penetrated with two dicks and one choking him.

His lips surround the reddening head, taking precaution to swirl his tongue and flick at the slit and suck the oozing semen that comes free. Cautiously he swipes underneath, tracing a bulging vein and hears Kida moan without abandon. Over the time of fucking Izaya the informant knows that Kida doesn't bother to restrain his reactions any further. They only humiliate him more, but he never allows Kida to know. There is no moan or reaction of arousal from him when he swallows Kida all the way to the base, propping himself on his elbow so he can wrap his right hand around the length and pump with aching fingers. As long as Kida moans and doesn't pull his hair too hard he can't hear the gags that come from choking—against the rules to make a sound. Having water dumped on him multiple times and held underwater in a bucket he knows the rules all too well.

He hears the clicks of Horada's heavy boots and listens despite the ringing in his ears, focusing more on ignoring the throbbing penis in his mouth and how undignified he has been in the time of being held which he doesn't know for sure. "Nn—ah, douse him already." Which make alarm bells sound in Izaya's ears and it's shortly before Kida is about to come that he feels ice cold water douse him. Immediately he freezes in place, stopping when Kida's already moaning louder and his entire body is begging for rest when exhaustion settles in with the freezing cold. Ice cubes have already beat against his back and clatter onto the floor, drenching everything while Yellow Scarves-san doesn't seem to mind at all.

Kida shivers and Izaya finds the irony when his entire body is trembling violently. But he arches into Izaya's mouth when he returns to sucking, swallowing with difficulty as semen starts to mix with saliva and his penis hits bruised muscles in his throat as he bucks. "Hah—mmn," Kida swallows and shivers, knowing he's close and with Izaya sucking harder he can feel the height of arousal building and then he's coming so quickly he sees stars when he shoves his penis further down Izaya's throat, enjoying the clench of muscles milking him dry when he does come. The only thing that ruins it, Kida returns from his high and his eyes narrow when Izaya pulls back and starts to lick at the tip of the softening erection, is that Izaya chokes when he swallows and Kida doesn't need to hear the disgusting sound. Which prompts him to give another order to Horada that is ignored in the buzzing of Izaya's ears and all of a sudden his arms are wrenched behind his back, forcing him to the ground and teeth just _grazing_ the head of Kida's cock which makes him yelp. Izaya forces down the cry that comes from his own throat when he feels fingers tie his wrists together and then he's being forced back up to sitting on his legs. Underneath him they're trembling and aching and he can barely stay up without Horada's painfully tight grip on him.

"Izaya-kun, I'm disappointed." Kida bites from grit teeth, shuffling and clearly unimpressed with the attempted bite from Izaya's reflexes. Dulled red eyes stare back at him, waiting patiently with the emptiness of a pain-clouded mind and nothing to quip back with a worthless throat. "When I've told you, biting isn't allowed." And then he's lunging at Izaya, fingers digging into the cigarette burn over a cut on his collarbone and reveling in the cringe and flinch when he rubs grains of salt further into the wound. Izaya arches and squirms like a fish out of water, mouth open and Kida shoving his fingers into the bloodied sores on Izaya's tongue with the command to _suck_ or else. Kneading the wound to force Izaya into further submission he feels the tongue working on him, coating his fingers with saliva and blood once again and perhaps feeling nice enough to lull Izaya into a false sense of comfort.

Like he cares. Izaya still writhes and moves when those fingers come back coated in blood and the others in saliva. On the floor he takes his fingers sticky with blood and grabs a mound of salt that sticks easily enough and shoves Izaya down onto his back. Of course he cringes and his body shudders when he falls on his arms and one is still painfully broken, but he doesn't have the compassion to spare. Saki takes it all in each hospital visit and therefore it's perfectly justified when Kida tears off the spared underwear which is also his own as a mark of who belongs to who. Izaya doesn't care at this point and he will when Kida shoves three bloodied salted fingers straight through Izaya's ass with no warning at all.

Which is where there are open wounds on the inside of Izaya, thrusting in and out and the salt feels uncomfortable on his fingers. A hiss of discomfort is nothing compared to when Izaya jolts up and in the moment his throat muscles look as if they're bulging when something hoarse and animalistic bubbles out of Izaya's throat. The sound is harsh and echoes in the room, forcing Horada to stop when the screaming sounds and Kida knows that the others will be looking.

So he makes a show of driving his fingers in deeper, not caring if there's more blood from the coarse salt or water mixing that is fucking cold and soaking his jeans. It doesn't matter at all as long as Izaya's scream echoes in his head with guilty dirtied satisfaction and soon enough Izaya collapses, on the verge of unconsciousness. Each movement he makes only makes the burn of salt worse and so he lies perfectly still, waiting with each thrust like a doll for Kida to get this over with.

"Get me the water bottle." Kida points to the bottle across from them for Horada to grudgingly oblige, using the saliva-coated hand to grab it and then pour the remaining contents into Izaya's anus where his fingers are, feeling the flush of lukewarm water. Quickly moving out of the way but never retracting his fingers, Kida forces Izaya's ass down and the water leaks from the inside, carrying a heavy trail of blood and the dissolved salt that comes with.

Izaya feels as if he's being split apart with each thrust of Kida's fingers in and out of him. Voice completely spent and on the verge of suffocating to death—his eyes are swimming in black spots that haven't faded for a long time now—when he's suddenly pulled up once again, Kida moving to lie on his back and away from the icy cold puddle of where he was lying in. "Ride me, Izaya-kun." the blond orders, unfazed and sharpened eyes removed of any guilt at all (so unlike the first meeting between the two, oh how they grow into monsters so quickly) and a tug on Izaya's left arm to mean _get a move on._

For all it's worth and feeling the intensity of whether or not this torture added together will kill him, the informant struggles to slide over and then drop onto Kida's cock. From him it brings out a gagged noise and while Kida's glaring Izaya finds the rush of insanity taking over when it buzzes from his fingertips that he doesn't care anymore. Doesn't care—_thrust up_—if—_impale and gasp__—_he dies while Kida is already applying ice to his back and Horada's tipping his head back with a knife pressing into a cigarette burn. It just can't get any better, and he's forcing a grin of bloodied teeth as the chill starts to sink in but the fire of his skin is getting hotter and hotter. If Kida notices by the groans he's making and feeling Horada's dick against his back then it only means that he's on fire by now.

He's moving faster, harder, and clenching with what he can despite the shrill cries of pain from rubbing salt further up his ass and blood trickling from him. Kida's moans are growing louder and he's thrusting lightly when Izaya moves, bouncing up and down with every movement traveling into the cracks of his bones. And with the clench of Kida's stomach and the telltale sign of knowing he's going to come Izaya rubs him harder, uncaring that he has a slight erection he can easily will away when Kida grabs the base and jerks, making him pause and battle for air when the pain is adding up too quickly.

"Hah, ah," Kida moans into him, arching up and the ice is already melted when it digs into older knife wounds poorly bandaged. Izaya can only grin brokenly because this is riding Kida, as commanded and the tears in his eyes are purely from pain and the realization that he doesn't care if this kills him. He knows it will, so the god has to give up the throne at one point when the people no longer believe in him. "Mm—ah, haa—!" So close and Izaya keeps bouncing, breaking every last string of veins and arteries that hold him together when he's at the breaking point. His mind is screaming and raging for him to stop this right now to pull himself back together by the crumbling threads he has left.

No. "F-Fuck—ah!" Kida cries, Izaya clenching all around him and the scent of blood and death is in the air, stinging Izaya's bruised nose and all he can do is laugh. Slowly it builds from his chest, rumbling and sounding like rattling metal clanging together until it breaks from his lips when he'll never care when Kida kills him. It's the end of the revenge game and he knows that he's won. Horada behind him is only a pawn—how clever.

Now now now—Izaya brushes his own prostate by accident and feels the shiver of disgust, arching back and breaking himself instead of having Kida do it. Bones creak and pop and ache when he moves but it's too late when Kida's gasping and one hard thrust slams into him—

"Fuck!" Blinding white lights and Izaya's slide to nearly shut, coated from inside out with seminal fluid and blood, but sweating because his skin is boiling hot.

Silence. The sound, Izaya thinks, of his mind breaking.

Heavy hard pants from Izaya that rumble in his ears after he's too exhausted to laugh, feeling Kida pull him off of his penis going limp. He tumbles to the ground, too numb to feel anymore and too shattered from the inside out to be a god or human for much longer. There's punishment coming for him when Horada stamps on his chest, holding a red canister above him and maybe he imagines the shouts when hot fluid pours on him. It slips and the immediate sweet and sour scent of gasoline invades his nose and mouth, tumbling down his throat and he coughs, feeling the distant sting of the flammable liquid rubbing into his wounds.

It's all so—_perfect._

Because right beside him that's also red and small is an item that has fallen out of Horada's pocket he forgot to hear when fucking Kida. Or being raped, but since nothing matters he can't find the urge to care when the pain is too much. More importantly, there is a lighter next to his head and his dislocated left wrist easily slips out of the ropes holding him back. There's more sounds of a fight overhead and whether or not they realize is only on them when Izaya can swing his arm and pull the lighter into his grasp, forcing the momentum to make him roll several times over. Only when he's up again and finding the wall to lean against do they start to advance upon him but—the click of a lighter.

And the lone flame flickers when he sees their eyes widen in his blackening vision.

_It's all so perfect._

This time, he agrees.

So boringly tedious indeed.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter two of Tedious, oh dear. Looks like the gore wagon is reaching its destination.<em>

_Thank you for reading._


	3. Raise the Dead

His eyes are blind. That's all Izaya can tell when black spots come so quickly and the lighter in his gasoline-soaked hand with a daunting little flame. If they move even Kida-kun would know what happens. There is gasoline spreading on the floor and they themselves are wearing flammable clothing. Which is hilarious when suddenly the predator becomes the prey in Izaya's game they don't think they're playing and that's how it's supposed to be. Now, only to be more self-aware and not falling from the broken grasp of holding on to the edge of what's supposed to be reminding him that he's above them all. Blinded by their own rage settling deep like black sludge within their chests and poisoning their thoughts as Izaya experiences no different when the gasoline tingles in the open wounds that don't know how to stop bleeding.

But since he doesn't know much anymore besides pain and the look of horror on either himself or Horada or Kida-_Masaomi's_ faces, it takes all but one cracking smile that nudges into a smirk and quickly fading into what comes after not breathing. After all, his throat has been closing up ever since being slammed down and he knows easily that his hyoid bone is on the verge of breaking if it already hasn't. Black spots confirm everything he doesn't see and the bodies standing still and erect, nervously waiting, are just parts of the game.

Lighters don't throw well, but the flame they create sends the entire building in smoke and rising flames. Apparently there are more containers of flammable things than Izaya knows so very little of.

He watches, expecting the release of death with the possible empty hope that the flames will climb higher. Kida and Horada fade from his eyes as soon as he's suffocating and choking on his closed throat, noting it better to not claw and thrash when it's all over much faster if he doesn't.

The flames rise and lick in front of his face, at a fever pitch and his skin starts to singe without the smell of cigarettes. He hears the shouts and confused yells of Horada and the other nameless pawns who took part in the pleasure of ripping Izaya's flesh apart without touching the delicate fatty tissue of his mind—it reminds him of ootoro, actually, but the defeat doesn't taste as bitterly fatty as blood tastes when it dribbles down his forehead mixed in a straying leaking strand of gasoline.

Hands are on him, pushing and pulling and his eyes are covered with cloth pulled tight. Izaya can only think that it's one last spiteful act before the flames reach him which confuses him as they haven't yet. He doesn't feel the lick and burn with the sinuous dance of his flesh being consumed by the very rage hidden behind pools of dried blood. The roof, he hears creaking and groans, unable to see anymore and fading too fast to count the seconds down to the end, is collapsing in. Giving into the claims of fire rising from the ground and the explosions that sound far too close to not injure any of the fools within.

It's the first time he doesn't shiver.

* * *

><p>Celty receives a text from Mikado, strangely enough, forwarded from one Masaomi Kida for an address near an area she knows to be in a neighborhood of moved-out buildings and warehouses. Showing it to Shinra, she starts to hear sirens that echo from outside and the fire station streets away when they both break away from conversation. Something tells her as she pulls on her helmet and excuses herself to Shooter that there is no coincidence. Not if Mikado's message is urgent.<p>

[Masaomi needs help, please,] is what the text reads before it shows the attachment.

By the time she mounts Shooter and they're zipping down the street, there are sirens behind her and they follow the streets she takes.

This is no accident, she's sure of this.

By the time the entire warehouse is burned to the ground with surprisingly no victims or witnesses, Celty is already racing down the streets moving the opposite way and a shadow cocoon strapped to Shooter, constantly looking back to check on the silent figure. Her fingers type on her phone held next to her while her mind is everywhere but here for once. Shooter drives for her, knowing the route to Shinra's and knowing the rider's distress enough to take over for now. Dried spots of blood dotting the seat and smearing on the back wheel when Celty knows this is going to be a long night.

Sirens flash and alarms are buzzing with vehicles whizzing by. Some passerby are standing out in the street, slack-jawed and right now she doesn't have the stomach to look at people. Because what she's seen is still burning into her mind and the smoke is only starting to billow beneath her helmet when strong emotions form and forge the tremble in her hands. At her phone she's attempting to send a text to Shinra, but words escape in trying to explain what exactly she saw and what is on the back of Shooter right now.

Celty feels her stomach twist and lurch. [I... You need to get emergency things ready.] Press _send_ when she has the urge to vomit and is now inwardly grateful for not having the need to eat. Otherwise when she arrives at a burning warehouse and smells blood in the air—not just a couple drops that accumulate on the gravel—but finding _pools_ of blood throughout the fire's grasp and all she can think is that it can't be Masaomi Kida. It just can't be.

Luckily, it's not and at the same time she stumbles upon it she's horrified. Turning away from the burning warehouse she finds a worrying blood trail that drags down away from the firemen and paramedics, making sure herself to stay away from them and reluctantly follows. Her shoulders tremble the entire time and there are times she wants to express herself by shrieking or saltwater trails or however she feels when frustration and horror mix like they do when she sees it. Finds the origin of the blood on the ground and she almost wants to throw up because the mangled flesh and gore with bright wide eyes is the worst thing she's ever seen.

She never wants to see Masaomi Kida covered in blood and holding what looks like the missing informant who has been blindfolded and _drenched_ in blood. It is a sight she regrets seeing because she freezes on the spot and stands there with horror rooting her to the ground after stumbling upon them. The blond who is still alive looks up, eyes growing even wider if possible and she realizes that he's seen worse things than her and it's enough motivation to force her forward.

"Get him out of here, please," he asks hoarsely, offering the limp informant—oh no no no no it's actually him—"I can't stop the bleeding. Just go." Fear and pity in his eyes Celty takes it that he is genuinely concerned for Izaya despite his own shaking and if she takes another second to see who this is she may have to turn the other way because—"G-Go! Hurry!" And with little to do but nod and no time to make a text, Celty's shadows emerge from the ground and wrap around the informant, careful not to include the blond as well and he disappears running in the opposite direction when the informant is completely covered.

Now she's on Shooter and a text message dings on her phone but there's simply no time to lose. Even though it's a text asking what's wrong and who's hurt she finds the will to write two words before turning down the street and blazing the path remaining, trying to forget the permanent reek of dried blood and a broken body. Fingers trembling she knows the feeling of a long night creeping up and sticky in the dark smoke caught in her throat.

[Izaya Orihara.]

Celty rushes in with Izaya faster than Shinra can greet her at the door, already helmet flying off from the force of when she moves in and nearly breaks the door open. The black ball surrounding her passenger and holding in the blood dissipates on the couch when it's already covered in towels, dropping what is left of the informant on the couch and for a moment the room stops. Time comes to a slamming halt as Shinra's eyes widen and in the better lighting of their apartment, Celty has the urge to vomit even more than ever. Shinra, on the other hand, is calmly speechless, assessing the damage in several moments of stunned silence that equivocate to treating Izaya's various injuries.

"Celty, dearest," Shinra sounds like Celty when she thinks she sees a ghost, "would you mind getting a tub of water for me? Lukewarm, please. And sedatives." He's not thinking at all, relying on basic information that comes to mind for each assessment of wounds. Possible broken arm with a shoddy cast, broken fingers on both hands (missing _fingernails_, he may as well add) and open wounds everywhere. The towels are already soaking in large amounts of blood which Shinra also finds interesting as even the gaping wound he can see from underneath Izaya's sleeve over his bruised shoulders isn't bleeding as much as it's supposed to do.

Coagulants. His eyes narrow when he can see the thickened state of the oozing blood, noting dehydration with the papery feel of Izaya's warmed skin. For some reason he feels somewhat slick with a foul sweet-sour reek, reminding him of—gasoline. And his fingers clench into his palms when he uses a towel to wipe away slick patches of the clear fluid, confirming that the marks of singed skin on Izaya with high-rising patterns are there because he was _doused_ in gasoline. Which means, Shinra sighs to himself and pulls one of the clear buckets to the side of the couch, forcing himself to be aware that he's going to have to induce vomiting _somehow_ in the mess that is Izaya.

[A little at a time.] Celty's PDA reads in his face, handing the medications to Shinra and the packets for needles that go with, setting the container of water on the ground. [Do you need anything else?] For once Shinra is grateful that Celty is here, because she's his reason he's keeping his head straight and not clouding over with horror from the state of Izaya.

"I need to induce vomiting." He doesn't say that it's to make sure Izaya hasn't swallowed blood and gasoline with whatever else is in his system. "But from the bruised ribs and throat where his larynx can collapse, it's a hard decision to make." Looking again he knows that vomiting isn't an option, so instead he opts for draining Izaya's stomach instead. "Celty, my beloved, I need to drain his stomach. Will you help set up the guest room for me?" He never needs to look up and see her nod when she puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently and then soft footsteps as she prepares the guest room and other equipment. They work efficiently as a team and Shinra will never know how to express gratitude for his beloved in moments like these.

While Celty prepares the room and moves in the necessary items for other medical procedures, Shinra swipes a patch of skin on Izaya's right arm with rubbing alcohol, pressing hard to remove the gasoline and dirt stains that turn out to be fingerprint bruises. Containing the frustration and the anger digging into his palms, Shinra aligns the needle and presses in, reaching the vein and watching for any signs of discomfort from Izaya while he injects the anesthetic. With this he knows that it's impossible for Izaya to wake up any time soon, and figures for the best he doesn't need to. The total reach of torture to his mind—Shinra has no idea where to begin on what Izaya has possibly suffered.

He sets to cleaning out wounds with the lukewarm water and a hand towel, cleaning them out until the sickly gleam from gasoline is free and the wounds aren't as red or dripping with pus and infection. Most of them are clean and he suspects the use of antibiotics as a cruel trick, but can't confirm otherwise for the festering ones that purple and ooze enough times to change several towels.

All the while he reminds himself that he's wearing gloves but the feel of Izaya's blood on his hands, holding a fate he's not sure he can keep, doesn't wash out with the gloves coming off.

[I'll take him in.] Celty's PDA come to his face again, turning to shiver at the body on the sofa and stifle it with the straightening of her spine. Shinra watches the shadows form a protective coat around Izaya, leaving the blood staining the towels and waits with baited breath as Celty moves, swallowing Izaya whole with shadows. In a way—he's not currently thinking, really—it's too fitting for watching the hollows of teetering over the edge of life and death when he watches Izaya disappear. It's only temporary, he reassures himself with the shudder that isn't supposed to be there and crawling down his spine. Death is permanent, however.

In this situation it seems a bit too tangible to rid himself of the sour taste, Celty disappearing into the guest room laid out for Izaya in the special qualities of his case while Shinra's feet root to the ground, eyes on bloodstained towels. All over his couch, wondering numbly if the bloodstains will come out if the towels (three layers high and never warm enough) soak through to the white bones of the sofa. Shaking his head he wills himself to move, gathering the towels and folding carefully over the blood that stains his gloves, disposing them in a laundry basket down the hall before heading to the guest room. Larger strides growing faster with impatience and before he realizes he's inside the guest room, equipment set and an IV needle pulled free of the plastic cover to take the already pricked arm, sliding the needle in without watching for nothing.

Okay. Deep breath in. He can do this. IV pole standing by, wheeled over by Celty and a gentle touch to his shoulder that doesn't feel real. Connect the needle standing from Izaya's unbroken elbow to the IV line, saline solution bag already hung and one end begins the tube, fastening to the end of the bag. There is blood soaking the coverings of the bed Celty must have added as a precaution and at this rate Shinra knows he needs a donor when Izaya's body in this state cannot keep himself alive. Blood type—Shinra knows this he knows these things off the top of his head and when he looks at Izaya all he can see is clotting platelets turning brighter with oozing wounds.

"Celty," Shinra speaks, aware that she's been listening from the counter top behind him across the room, never pausing in her work. "Would you get Shizuo? Ask him if I could call a favor from him." He accepts that she's going to ask and doesn't spare the time in answering the deserved curiosity—after all she's done, especially now—and informs her while he begins the process of bandaging all the open wounds to stem the bleeding. It's everywhere, he sees the red sea form on the bed of a tiny body and wonders if this Izaya is the same or _will_ be the same as before (no, that's silly) and maybe it's the best not to answer that.

"I need to give Izaya a blood transfusion. We've got about fifteen minutes before he enters a critical state. Shizuo has a compatible blood type and I don't have any more. Just do what you can to get him here as fast as you can." Neglect to mention that perhaps he's exaggerating the time in the worst way when looking at Izaya it doesn't look like he has five minutes. Celty doesn't need any more stress, he decides. Izaya can't die when he's here.

The click of the door and footsteps running down the stairs (the neigh of a horse in the background) shows how much she loves him. Back to Izaya, he sighs, when the sterilized cotton swab stings and brings forth more blood before he can tightly wrap the bandages needed, adding an extra layer or two with careful fingers and changing his gloves when they're too sticky with blood to focus on not letting his fingers tremble. They never do when he focuses on his work, but when he hears his cellphone in his pocket chime he slips and faltering isn't the technique of steady hands and fingers like scalpels when he cuts away all the infection without a blink. This is his friend he is operating on.

Friends never shake his hands beneath his fingers dying or a simple stitching.

But Izaya always haunts his sleep whenever he comes by. Shinra wonders if there's a day he'll forget to come one day. Or be too broken to be put back together again. Which he doesn't ever try to think of considering the possibilities outweighing the needs of one over the needs of many and this is too complicated to discuss. Celty would know much more than him, and perhaps when they can get a moment of surface air to pretend everything is alright when the day that actually happens is further away now than it has been.

"Come on, come on," attaching cords sticking to the bare spots on Izaya's chest (fingers aren't an option) he sets up the heart monitor, watching the unstable beat. "Come on, Izaya. You're going to be fine, just stay with me." he murmurs mainly to himself in the unfamiliarity of being alone in the conversation of to the almost dead. The rise and fall of Izaya's chest is not as comforting as it is meant to be but enough to grasp for when Shinra finds himself staring at the monitor, waiting for the heart rate to climb back from the deficit of staying dead for too long. The oxygen setup comes next as a wary precaution, attaching the mask to Izaya's face while he never wakes. At least he can distract himself with the more unsettling task of preparing the setup for draining Izaya's stomach. One long hollow needle, connected by another tube to a container. There isn't much time for concern and he has the practice from too many times of Izaya coughing up lungs from vending machine-shaped bruises and broken ribs.

"It's going to hurt," Shinra starts, wiping down the clear skin soon to be pierced with the needle with a numbing agent, carefully angling around a particularly nasty bruise and an interesting indent of what looks like teeth. Not now, he reminds himself. "But you already knew that. You knew anything would hurt when you got yourself into where you've been for two weeks." There is, Shinra acknowledges as fact, very little Izaya doesn't know. At the back of his mind he wonders if the same courtesy of blatant disregard extends to the same condition as Izaya possibly not living in the next five to ten minutes. Without meaning to digress further Shinra pierces the flesh, slowly sliding in and feeling the puncture of Izaya's stomach as a resistance soon giving to the sharp press of the needle.

It's in, and turning a switch to release the clasp from the inside tubing mechanism, Izaya's stomach starts to drain. Shinra notes the clear color of a fluid draining, knowing it not to be from regular body processes but the sweetly sour stench of gasoline that salts that back of his throat in nauseous discomfort. More fluid fills the large container as the seconds tick by, one hand resting on Izaya's bruised shoulder while the other keeps the needle in place, braced to not move or Izaya suffers more serious consequences from accidental irritation. Nothing happens throughout the steady beeping of the heart monitor between watching Izaya's sleeping face to the fingers gently brushing a bruised shoulder.

About one gallon later, Shinra pulls the needle and bandages the spot. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but the silence is heavy ringing in his ears. All he can think about is the suspiciously large amount of clear fluid separating from blood. The density differences make it easy to tell that the fluid is not from inflamed lining of his stomach, but rather flammable gasoline forcefully consumed. The thought is chilling, but as a doctor he manages to keep his composure for a little longer, attending to the long list of preparing for a night to last.

"What do you want me to do?" Shizuo rubs his eyes, clearly annoyed at having been woken up and fingers twitching with the itch for a cigarette as heavy anxiety slips into his bloodstream. Celty stands, slightly exasperated and confused and itching to want to just speak to convey why her entire body is trembling in the confines of her suit. In his state of disoriented tiredness, Shizuo never notices that her fingers slip when she types, herself thankful for the auto correct function.

[Shinra needs a blood transfusion right now and I'll explain just _please_ tell me you can.] She thrusts the screen into his groggy eyes, apologizing inwardly with a cringe when she hears Shizuo growl softly and turn his eyes away to avoid the burning glare of the screen's brightness. Stars blink in his eyes and Celty can see the confusion but there's simply no time to be asking questions—just hurry, Shizuo, she can't explain right now and—she wonders if being human includes this flighty lighthearted pounding sensation throughout her entire body in hollow echoes of adrenaline rush when the smoke of her helmet is pouring out in heavy billows.

Shizuo narrows his eyes, leaning against the door frame and glancing at Celty curiously. "Fine, but as long as he's not experimenting on me." There is much more he wants to ask like why him and why is it so important but Celty grabs his wrist, pulling him out the door and they take off nearly before he can lock the door to his apartment. In pajamas he doesn't necessarily care what he looks like out in public, feeling the warm haze of stale summer air and slowly waking up to sitting on Shooter before Celty takes off, faster than he has ever seen before. So it must be an emergency, he decides, as shadows wrap around his head to form a helmet which he never finds necessary if he's going to let his brain rot at Shinra's house with all of his stupid rantings.

"What's going on, Celty?" Shizuo raises his voice and the surroundings blurring in city lights as fast-moving images pass by them too quickly to grasp sight of. "Why does Shinra need my blood?" And who exactly is this for although he's sure if Celty can't answer him now then it must be important enough to exert some force of patience. Being too sleep-docile to complain or demand an answer when Celty is clearly nervous he falls silent after a while, never hearing from her once the entire ride to Shinra's apartment across town. It feels like only minutes have passed once they arrive and just as soon as they do Shizuo finds himself behind Celty who races up the stairs, quietly with her shadows bouncing and Shizuo's loud steps of keeping up with her like the rising pulse of his own temper flaring as his shoes clang against the ground. Slippers, really, but the details aren't important.

They arrive at the door, Celty swinging it open and typing quickly to someone when she presses the send button and it's not for Shizuo. He thinks he hears a faint buzzing sound of a phone and decides to ignore it, waiting in a somewhat awkward position of still being sleep-blind and muted to his surroundings but blood starting to rush under his skin. "So, what's the big deal?" he mutters louder this time, noticing Celty never looks up at him from her phone—that's not a habit of hers as she hates being rude—and when she finally looks at him her helmet is already tumbling off by the jerk of her head upward.

[Just don't freak out right now. Shinra needs you to donate some blood because...] she trails off in realizing that mentioning Izaya's name won't do any more for Izaya than what hasn't already been done. [Shinra has a patient that's very important and you're the only one he knows that has a blood type that is compatible, so he really needs you to donate some right now. I don't know how much time we have left.] The last words are ominous even if they are forced into Shizuo's face, making his brows furrow once again as he squints to read the letters and blinks to clear the haze from his eyes. More awake now his lips snap on his teeth, moving from his bottom lip to catch on his front teeth when he's anxious or bothered by something.

"Okay..." Shizuo blinks, teeth grazing on the flesh of his lip and for once he doesn't bite through this time. Yet, that is. "So what do you want me to do? Sit somewhere?" Celty means to type an answer, but the buzz of her PDA in her hands startles her into nearly dropping the object, missing heart leaping in her chest in horror before she catches it and doesn't recover fully then.

[Okay, Just wait right here. Shinra will be out to draw your blood for you.] Celty types quickly, spelling mistakes corrected with her bouncing fingers splattering all over the keyboard in the nervous twitches that Shizuo is starting to notice all too well. [Thank you, Shizuo. Thank you for this.] And he hears a door from down the hall click open, footsteps coming out and Celty turns to the source, glancing back at Shizuo and nodding before she brushes by Shinra as he approaches with a strange contraption at his side.

"Hey there." Shinra greets tiredly, not in the mood to ramble a bit about how Celty looks nervous and how much he wants to calm her down with her in his arms, holding her tightly until she can breathe easily when she's with him. But for now Shizuo isn't amused and he has an emergency to attend to, even if Celty is his number one priority. "Just sit down on the couch," Shinra motions to the clean white, following Shizuo who moves to sit. "And I'll just take some blood from you. Simple as that." At this time Shizuo questions silently where Celty has gone to and what the air of rush is in the air for, settling with an ashy taste that has the same texture of crumpled ceilings and broken objects—those are accidents and he does not need to think of these things now—and it bothers him immensely. He still barely knows what's going on.

"Hold your arm out." Shinra taps him when Shizuo finds himself spacing out, blaming it on the sleepiness and the daze of wanting a cigarette to flush his system with nicotine. A rubber band ties around his upper arm, pulling tightly and then the cool feeling of alcohol is on his arm, almost humoring himself with the thought of the skin breaking the needle Shinra pulls from his pocket and unwraps from plastic when it is so tiny it doesn't look like it can do much. Aligning the needle Shinra slowly pushes into the vein, twisting a cap at the end of it while Shizuo looks vaguely disinterested from the dull sting of skin breaking. The thing at Shinra's side from earlier is in his lap and one hand moves to grab one part of tubing and twists it into the opening where the needle's hollow chamber ends. From there Shizuo can see the tubing wind into some sort of bag, which he guesses is what Shinra is using to collect the blood swelling in the hollow of the needle.

Shinra's fingers twist the switch again on the needle, releasing the flow of blood that drains into the bag held by his other hand. Shizuo holds the needle in place, watching as the red fluid quickly drains from his arm and almost fascinated and disgusted as it moves quickly into filling the bag as slowly as it does. The thought of who his monster blood is going to starts to fester in his mind, knocking against his skull but he assumes if Celty doesn't tell him then it must be an important person to either her or Shinra, which he finds he has no assumptions to conclude to but why the person is stupid enough to need a transfusion at this hour.

"How are you doing?" Shinra asks part of the way in, bag filling with blood and Shizuo deciding to look away from the drain in his arm. "Any dizziness at all? I know dearest Celty must have woken you up abruptly, so let me know when you feel dizzy or lightheaded." Shinra says, focusing his voice into a quiet tone just above a murmur and it definitely piques Shizuo's interest, but then again, so does the prospect of sleep.

"Fine," Shizuo answers absently, making an entryway for the silence between them to fluctuate into the dull thickness of the room's atmosphere weighing in on everyone nearby, though Shizuo can't quite name what the feeling is even if it seems vaguely familiar. Reprimanding, almost, and reminiscent of not-so-fond memories from a childhood of regretting too much for being alive. As the silence stretches on his eyes are closing for him and he snaps them open at times, feeling the barest sensation of a fuzzy head and empty thoughts from the amount of blood already donated, more than halfway filling the bag.

Moments tick by, Shizuo craving sleep now more than nicotine but the irking feeling that tonight is going to be more than just a favor for Shinra starts to scratch at the inside of his skull again. The bag, already filling to the top, weighs down in Shinra's hand before the doctor reaches out to stop the flow of blood with the closing of the tube. The tube pops from the blood bag, Shinra filling the last remaining droplets in before detaching it and using a plastic seal imprinted on the bag to seal it. Then his hands are pulling the rubber band free and disconnecting the tube from the needle to be put on some white towel Shizuo hasn't noticed on the floor. A bandage over a cotton ball goes on the incision point of his elbow, Shinra taking the blood and barely catching the questioning glance of _what is going on here_ when it's hard enough to stay focused as is.

"I'll get you a snack, Shizuo. Don't move around for a little bit." Shinra speaks, eyes distant even if Shizuo catches them. Sitting on the couch he can feel his head spinning with sleep attempting to take over again, nodding as Shinra is already gone and the equipment disappears with him. The open and shut of the fridge has Shinra coming back, proffering a carton of juice which Shizuo hasn't realized that Shinra has, and an energy bar dropping into Shizuo's open hand. "I need to go monitor the blood transfer, so my darling Celty will be out in a minute." Shinra's voice trembles in the way that doesn't go unnoticed. Shizuo plunges the straw in the foil-covered top, unamused with the skirting around the subject. "Thanks for this, Shizuo." he excuses himself and it's only seconds later when he disappears.

Glancing at the energy bar Shizuo hears the faint sounds of conversation in the other room, crinkling the annoying wrapper with his fingers while tossing it down the couch, uninterested in the health aspect. The juice box isn't as bad with apple juice, sucking down a couple gulps and tonguing the straw instead of a cigarette when he has neither cigarettes or a lighter. In Shinra's apartment he knows Celty will be angry if she finds out. But the curiosity is only growing at a faster rate with Shizuo's silence, eyes starting to close and listening to dull murmurs before it's hopeless to amuse himself with the straw in an empty carton. Leaving it on the coffee table in front of him Shizuo slips his body onto the couch, lying his head on the arm and attempting to sort out his thoughts.

When Celty emerges it's a good thirty minutes later, Shinra tending to the last of Izaya's blood transfusion with not as heavy breaths from Shinra dotting the seconds held in and hitching if a sign of danger spikes on the monitor. Izaya's already looking better from what she watches, covered in blankets and color returning to him for a deathly pale to a less deathly pale and more sickly than usual. The last time she remembers the same image must be when Izaya's ribs had been broken by Shizuo, suffocating in every step to their apartment and by the time he arrives unannounced he passes out on Shinra. It takes three days, she remembers, for Izaya to breathe on his own again after the threat of a collapsed lung.

Which reminds her that—strangely enough—Shizuo had asked where Izaya was each day of being at her apartment. Looking over to him when her PDA returns to her sleeve, she ponders over what to say as Shizuo is lying on the couch, sound asleep.

The least she can do is give him some blankets and a pillow to sleep on.

* * *

><p><em>Nya, so tired of writing so much. Oh well, at least I enjoy it. <em>

_Thank you for reading._


	4. Speaking Silence

Izaya looks better, although tucked carefully beneath layers and layers of blankets despite the slight fever, pulling a couple back but more to stabilize the fragile bones in his legs and arms from repeated abuses. His left arm—Shinra can't say for himself that it's better than before. The bones he knows are smashed to near pieces with a messy break of the humerus and fragments infecting the skin for days of reopening the wound with significant marks of knives drawing diagrams to connect the pain he must have been in. Everything else comes as a long haul of working to keep Izaya alive, painkillers and antibiotics administered after the flush of whatever coagulant sedative out of his system and his functions begin to regulate. The drug Shinra isn't sure he knows the name of, but he knows that it happens to be more unusual and a harder to find around Ikebukuro. Something to keep in mind for later when needed.

Even if he's stable for now after a good hour or two of fighting for his life, Shinra isn't sure if Izaya will pull through. Going from the amount of blood lost he has already taken two donations from Shizuo who can't possibly give any more in one night, passed out on the sofa and Celty probably is taking him home by now when it's been a long night for everyone. Shinra meticulously tapes broken fingers and casts into place, careful of weak points of not quite broken but dangerously teetering edges of fractures, going by the swollen appearances of blemished skin and knowing that a scan would be more beneficial. Maybe in the morning as right now Izaya is too weak and his condition widely unknown to be up for blood tests and other routine things in this sort of situation.

Okay, breathe. Count the facts, Shinra knows this in attempts of bringing focus back to his tired eyes he's been rubbing for the past hour now. Eleven at night and beginning to feel tired now that the rush of adrenaline and the immediate danger have passed quietly into fizzling ends. To be fair he's more than surprised that Izaya is still alive for this long. Shakily taking breaths and an oxygen mask covering his face, but alive.

One. His left arm may be unable to heal completely from the damage caused by a heavy blunt object. The bones and muscles have been next to obliterated and taunted with knife wounds and salt. A lot of flushing cleans out the beginnings of an infection and the salt which takes two buckets of filling to clean out. His ankle suffers a fate almost as bad with the twisted joint bruised and swollen too much to be normal.

Two. His right eye is damaged from a cut near the iris. Dangerous, but not immediately fatal to his sight. A coinciding mark beneath the eye drawing to his ear confirms the presence of a knife.

Three. His hands may be permanently ruined by being impaled repeatedly. There are marks in his feet that have been flushed and poorly bandaged at well, but Shinra knows the fine motor skills will need rehabilitation.

Four. Swollen skull due to excessive force applied, leaving open wounds festering in the back where blood mats Izaya's hair. Suspected moderate to severe concussion.

Five. Izaya's arms, bruised black and purple, have been dislocated several times. If he's able to use them again, Shinra counts him as lucky. The trauma to them is severe enough combined with the ligament damage sustained over periods of time.

Six. Stab wounds, cigarette marks, and gasoline. Covering almost every patch of skin bruised or not there are usually shallow ones, but some deeper ones he finds are close to the left arm and his hands and feet. Over his collarbone are repeated cigarette burns trailing to the back of his neck, pairing with fingernail scars.

Seven. Raped repeatedly, going by the anal fissures Shinra finds in an unlucky twist of seeing spots of blood from between his thighs. Over patching up the cuts on Izaya's groin he has to find firsthand that repeated bruising all over his lower body matches up with signs of repeated rape. The cuts on the inside, however, are far more sinister and Shinra wars with himself as to whether or not he should conclude that knives are used to create the same injuries.

Eight. Severe dehydration and signs of malnutrition mean that Izaya's torture methods did not end with physical and mental anguish. At this rate with a high fever Shinra has extra duty of making sure Izaya stays in the constant balance of hanging onto life.

Nine. There are bruises covering ninety-four percent of his entire body, from blunt-force trauma to rope markings around his wrists and legs. It gets even worse with the bruised ribs Izaya has, making it harder to breathe already. His throat is what worries Shinra the most—dotted in shades from purple to yellow and marks of hands all over it. The muscles are clearly exhausted at this point and if Izaya regains his voice it's going to be a long hard process and plenty of _ifs_ to motivate Shinra into believing that the informant can.

Ten. Whatever damage Izaya has suffered, he will never be the same again.

Blood pressure, heart rate, everything looks normal. Anger quietly seething beneath his skin, frustrated and angry beneath fingers of carefully cradling Izaya's chin to inspect his bruised jaw, marking the pattern as something blunt like a shoe. Shinra can taste the blood in his mouth before he realizes he's biting through his tongue when his teeth grind together, marking the notes in his cellphone to write down for a file's storage. Celty's not here to see what he sees and it's a good thing because there isn't anything that's not ugly when jutting out like sore thumbs from bruises to bite marks and broken bones. Empty little things, ripping skin in blood lust passion for the point of making them hurt. Nothing fatal that he knows of besides the ripping and internal bleeding from where Izaya has been dehumanized and made to suffer.

His vocal cords are severely damaged. So much usage for bruising muscles that keep getting re-injured, throbbing with the lower temperature of a fever wrecking havoc on Izaya's compromised immune system. Shinra can tell from the swelling that swallowing is immensely painful and the IV dosage of painkillers can only do so much without killing him. At least he's quiet now, sleeping on a pillow and still dirty with sweat and blood in his hair and other places Shinra doesn't reach quite yet, evidence still lingering for photographic uses which Shinra knows as to help Izaya. Though helping him—he's not sure what to do. Celty is outside the door, with Shizuo and they have been silent for a while now as Shinra continuously checks on Izaya, waiting for the brighter part of the situation to emerge. For Izaya to show he's going to make it through the night.

It's not the same Izaya he knows, seeing all the marks and remembering all the internal damage attesting to protesting death curling in on himself like a fist raised as a mocking reminder to whoever has done this that they never can win. In a way Shinra can find some reason to smile bitterly, knowing Izaya would never give in to anything thrown at him. Limp back to him yes, but never to break apart no matter the pain and suffering—the scuffle with Shizuo that Shinra knows of from behind flashing warning light red eyes that whenever they speak of Shizuo, it used to hurt. Now it's the mix of wanting a drink to forget that this is happening and the smaller things like Shizuo never _knowing_ in a time like this, Shina doubts it's at all beneficial.

"What happened to you, Izaya?" Shinra murmurs under his breath, fingers slipping under his glasses to rub his eyes again. The bright light of the guest room still burns into his corneas as a safety precaution and not enough yellow tape to warrant this. He knows what happened and he knows it burning into the flesh of his brain as something that can't be washed away like gasoline and salty blood reacting in bursting platelets if Shizuo's blood doesn't match and he know sit does but he waits still—tired. Exhausted mentally and physically running up the stretch of the mile uphill refusing to fall back down and lie in the mud. "Who did this to you, huh?" Shinra brushes bloodied hair out of Izaya's face, avoiding the stinging flesh of a knife mark trailing into his hairline crusted and scabbing over with a butterfly bandage to hold it shut.

The oxygen mask hums with the flowing air, feeding into Izaya's parted lips cracked and broken even if smoothed over with some Vaseline to prevent any further irritation. As gently fixed and patched—except for the arm, Shinra doesn't really know for that one—Izaya still looks as broken as he came in, like a toy pulled apart and set on fire with the burns on his skin no matter the depth of degrees in what happened to end like this.

Shinra thinks he should tell Shizuo.

* * *

><p>Morning comes like a careful tentative venture into the unknown territory of Shinra deeming Izaya stable enough for more blood tests and surgery. Shizuo's at home courtesy of Celty, having apparently fallen asleep on the sofa and too tired to wake up again. The situation for him is carefully avoided and Shinra bites his tongue in a new habit of wondering what he's supposed to say in these things while also agreeing that he should wait for Izaya to wake up first. Though the first thing on his mind is the surgery for cleaning up the bone fragments in Izaya's left arm so they can't get any more infected in the tissue. The first heavy dose of anesthetic for Izaya makes Shinra nervous despite carefully watching his readings as they began to drop in accordance for the drugs and it takes Celty being there with him, hand on his shoulder squeezing gently and a silent <em>it's okay<em> to finally let the anesthetic run its course.

Surgery isn't too bad, slicing open the wounded skin and extracting bits of bone while making a point to keep the anesthetic flowing, since this would hurt more than it should and if Izaya is to wake—ridiculous. He's completely out cold, has been since last night and it's seven in the morning when he's having doubts. Celty lets Shizuo sleep, watching documentaries on the television but on call like a hospital nurse, her preference, if anything goes wrong. An hour passes and Shinra's almost done, nausea absent from his stomach when he's used to these sorts of sights of the human body in various states of wear and tear. Nothing unusual, nothing new. The only thing that makes it worse is that it's Izaya and the neck brace he puts around the bandaged bruised throat is that Izaya has a risk of choking anytime should his throat collapse.

Somewhere around ten in the morning Shinra finishes the surgery, more tired than he has felt in nights of forgoing sleep for emergency calls. With Izaya recovering back in the guest room he can have the morning to accept an embrace from Celty and let her make him a cup of tea. Jasmine, since it's the scent that reminds him of her and even if she flushes in response to when he tells her this he knows she's flattered and gives a smile, reassuring more for himself. Celty does bring up the question though—what about Shizuo? And it's a good point because moving on from here especially with Shizuo's involvement means figuring out what to say and do.

"Well," Shinra feels the scratch of having not shaved for a day on his chin, disliking the feel rubbing against his fingers and resolving to shave soon. "We can let him know when he wakes up that his blood went to Izaya and his archenemy is closer to death than he ever has been." Lack of sleep puts him in bitter mood and Celty shoots him a look, typing on her PDA with a heavily unamused air.

[That's the problem. You know Shizuo hates Izaya.] Celty types, earning an odd look from Shinra when his brain is starting to make _too_ much sense in reading that _what about Izaya_ part but since it doesn't necessarily matter when Izaya is asleep, it's better to stash the thought away and just keep moving. Celty types again in return for his silence. [So we need to figure out something.]

He sips from the tea, considering it. "Or we can tell him directly if he really wants to know. You or I can warn him, although I would prefer if you did my dearest Celty, as you're closer to him than I am." Shinra sees the shrug in her shoulders and he isn't really hungry for anything at all, feeling the emptiness of his stomach and deciding to just let breakfast slide when confronted with a mutilated friend.

Tap, tap, tap. [I'll go out with him today for a little while and see if he cares. But just prepare if he does come back, that things might go bad.] Celty feels Shinra reaching for her hand, not bothering to pull away when his fingers slip through hers in a silent gesture and he nods, tightening his grip on her. She gives a gentle squeeze in reply, as it's all she can do.

Recuperating is never something Izaya plans on doing, usually forgoing his medications for the dumbest of excuses or selling painkillers on whatever market just for a small profit. At least this time Shinra can find the gallows humor in having Izaya completely immobilized, but the chuckle that wants to bubble up doesn't last much longer. Even if Izaya's still asleep and probably will be for a while, he can keep the pain medications and oxygen flowing, making sure that the last breath Izaya takes is not on his watch no matter what it takes. So far it's going well with constant checking in, having to fix a nutrition IV in combination with the saline solution to help his body repair itself. The least he can do, seeing as only Izaya decides the outcome and Shinra will be damned to and back from Hell if he doesn't attempt to try.

It's a little harder than expected, watching his friend suck oxygen from a mask and sometimes the shivers come and go like Izaya's moods. Shinra has to watch for elevated body temperature due to Izaya's fever still ravaging while he's down and fighting to stay alive. Really it isn't fair at all if Izaya's dealing with more than enough, having a fever keep him unconsciously shivering or sweating. Sometimes both and the fight of layering blankets or peeling them off becomes an interesting struggle. The entire time Celty is away, talking with Shizuo as she surely knows how to handle more delicate situations when Shizuo is a constantly-lit fuse running on dynamite packed into more dynamite and plenty of damage.

So far Izaya is better than worse from the previous night, fever still refusing to budge despite the medications balancing on dangerous for the cocktail in the informant's bloodstream. Still with the collapsed throat Shinra has to keep Izaya in a neck brace, keeping the full mouth and nose mask on for the time being instead of a nasal cannula. Shinra carefully monitors his progress, receiving updates once in a while from Celty and trying to feel somewhat normal watching television.

Only then does it circle the drain, because on TV there is a news coverage of a fire in a warehouse in the west district of Ikebukuro with the camera panning on burned blood staining the ground. Clips from the night before light up in flames as the camera follows the flash of fire, flames climbing higher and a reporter stating that there are possible suspects who escaped from the building. But by the intensity of the fire and the many attempts by the firefighters to put it out connections start to click in his head—gasoline fire. Proving true when the building explodes—Shinra cringes, looking away and muting the television to catch himself.

And gasoline...

_Izaya._

Reaching for his phone he pulls up Celty's number, tapping a text for her in the consideration of the bitter thoughts swarming his skull with the urge to go check on his findings for Izaya's wounds. Surely there's something not right here (if it's worth knowing is another hint left alone) and he wants to know what Celty does, since they haven't spoken much at all since she left. [_Hey, Celty, there's news coverage of a warehouse fire in west Ikebukuro. Could that be what you left to last night?_] Pressing send doesn't offer any relief and neither do the next ten minutes of silence that follow.

He's on the edge, tapping his fingers almost nervously but calm and composed like a doctor is meant to be. Finally his phone rings with a buzz, knowing it's Celty who texts him because the ringtone is just for her. Anxiety means even with fingers that don't tremble he doesn't understand when he reads the message over and over the first few times. [I think I'm going to be gone for a couple days, Shinra. There's a problem with Shizuo.] It doesn't make any sense and surely enough he asks why, confused as to why his beloved is suddenly speaking of disappearing for a couple days and what does it have to do with a fire in the west district? There has to be an explanation and waiting is even longer than typing.

[Shizuo's been charged with arson. Someone framed him for the warehouse fire.]

His phone drops and he forgets to read the last part.

[I need to help him clear his name. Don't tell anyone anything.]

The name on the television screen confirms it: _Shizuo Heiwajima, wanted for suspected arson in the west district of Ikebukuro_—which makes no sense, Shinra questions it in the silence of his apartment. Because there's no way possible Shizuo would set something on fire if he's angry with something—he destroys things, sure, but setting fire to a building? And _killing_ people? That—it doesn't make any sense at all. Shinra bends to retrieve his phone from the ground, reading the last message sent by Celty and accepting it with the burden of a sigh. So this is more involved than he actually knows, but as to include Shizuo in this as well? Celty risks it when she goes at Mikado's request to the burning buildings, but she would've said something, right?

Of course she would. Always. [_Alright, my dearest Celty. I'm not sure how that's even possible, but whatever it takes. Do you need anything?_] Shinra types back, turning off the television in favor of keeping his sanity for one morning. He has records to go over, anyway, from comparing data to why and how Izaya is in the same warehouse that burns to the ground on the camera footage rolling in his thoughts.

His phone buzzes in the time it takes to get up and make his way to the guest room where Izaya is hopefully still alive. Of course he is—what is he thinking? [I don't know what's going on. But right now I can't say where I'm at, and if anyone comes for you, let me know immediately.] Celty's text is as cryptic as the ones before, leaving Shinra with a heavier sort of weight resting in his chest as soon as he pushes into the guest room, clicking the door shut behind him. Deciding that staring at the blank screen after he reads the message isn't good for his aching heart of missing Celty, Shinra pockets his phone in favor of retrieving patient files, thickening with each day's report to be put into his laptop.

"Well, I think I'm starting to know what's going on." Shinra remarks to the still patient, lying in the cot without any knowledge of the world still turning around him. "As for you, Izaya," glancing through files and photographs noted in his phone, they pale in the ugly stages of healing that begin to process now out of immediate danger. Exhausting himself is a dangerous possibility and for which Shinra makes sure to keep the nutrients at hand, knowing to leave the feeding tube alone until the lining of the stomach settles and Izaya is less likely to be in pain. "No one knows what happened to you. Hard to believe, isn't it?" No answer, but it's alright since Shinra realizes voicing his own thoughts aloud without an answer is the only way to calm the thoughts in his head in these sorts of situations. Not a bad thing, just sometimes a little habitually lonely.

The readings, on the other hand, look good. For surviving the night Shinra is already relieved, knowing only twenty-four hours remain until Izaya can be out of secured watch for any dramatic signs of vitals decreasing to organ failure. Highly unlikely, but still worth the concern of keeping watch for a little longer. Bruises darkening on the flesh of Izaya's throat he looks even worse despite the regular stages of healing, skin turning blackish purple with the darkening of the bruises scattered on nearly every inch of available skin. Oxygen mask still applied to Izaya's bruised face Shinra can see the damage without having to remove the blanket covering Izaya. Enough has been done—he doesn't need to convince himself any further that the damage is real. The more important questions like who or why haven't been answered yet and for the same reason Shinra feels that they won't be answered for a long time.

Makes sense, almost.

Without waiting for Celty's next text and deciding not to bother her (for now, saving the energy to bombard her with texts the moment she can respond sometime in the future) Shinra sets to work of checking bandages, all clean and white with heavy layers beneath that need changing from the heavy bleeding of the night before.

A pair of surgical scissors, however, feels small and empty in his hands when starting the first snips on an arm bandage, working on sealing the skin and creating a flexible cast for Izaya's entire left arm after the wounds close. Splints already in place he works around them, cutting carefully and making sure not to aggravate any crusting or caking wounds with the ginger tugs of cloth coming undone from the binding of dried blood to skin. First comes the rougher tugs that Shinra has to almost catch his breath for in reminding himself Izaya won't feel it anyway before pulling off the sticky bandages, immediately using the sting of antiseptic to wipe away blood despite the summoning of more from every wound and weeping freely by the time he applies bandages. The left arm is the hardest, Shinra imagines in every stretch of the meaning. Difficult. Frustrating. Unsure.

The bones have been surgically repaired, held in place by pins and more painful things that hurt to think of them and more to have them. But for Izaya's own benefit and the possible regaining of use for his left arm at all, even with torn shoulders, Shinra calls it as a low to minuscule chance of full recovery. How the next days go are all on Izaya to either make it or break new ground of finding a change in pace for his lifestyle. Careful precision in piecing back together shredded bone and muscle is one of Shinra's specialties, but there are certain cases, none quite like this, where he doubts the full extent of his skill and once again Celty reminds him that he's good enough to do these things. It's why he's a doctor. Because he can.

All of this is tiring, watching the rise and fall of Izaya's chest, struggling at time to make a full loop back around and the oxygen mask hissing with flowing air, reassuring that the fight to keep the informant alive isn't as in vain as it sounds. Completely torn apart in Shinra's definition and horrifying enough to be the result of angry, gut-clenching passion committed entirely by sociopaths. He's not sure, and if that's a good thing or not that's even worse in terms of clarity, if Izaya is even capable of doing this to himself. Someone else—that's another story and something he'd rather not think about. Simpler things like breathing and counting to ten and a reminder of Celty, starting to crumple his heart again, are easier and albeit less painful to focus on. Celty, however, he misses already in the hours to come of losing her time. All for the loss of Shizuo's innocence, which he's never sure how it happens and if the person who committed this crime even knew of Shizuo. Though with the brute's reputation, not uncommon for him at all to have enemies. Plenty of them, though never as much as Izaya has.

He finishes with the last of the bandages in almost an hour, wrapping fresh ones that cover leaking wounds easily and saves the worst parts of cleaning certain areas for last. None of Izaya is a pretty sight and not something he'd like to see again in any lifetime of his, past or next. Sometimes he wonders if this is supposed to be a joke if Izaya's not meant to be part of it and if Shinra's involved—well, he doesn't perchance the deeper sides of the argument present. Composing a text message is as far as he's willing to go, having already soaked his hands in blood. Despite the mask of surgical gloves Shinra begins to realize that the blood of his friends never washes off. Bits and specks remain when they recover, and if they die in which he's never experienced it, Shinra doesn't know whether or not the bloodstains will ever dry when he snaps on a clean pair of gloves and prepares for the coming days.

Profoundly prophetic, he shakes his head and brushes Izaya's too-long hair out of his face, wondering whether or not to cut it would be beneficial and maybe Celty would be a better fit. Too early in the day and in Izaya's life to be philosophical. That's mainly Izaya's job, which he does terribly at.

* * *

><p>Two days pass. Not a word from Celty, starting to wonder when it's an appropriate time to call if he's been sending the minimal amount of text messages. It's so hard though, not hearing a word from Celty and Shinra knows she's going to be okay. But for risking this—even he still isn't sure what's going on anymore. Something about a conspiracy, bloody warehouse, and bodies of people who have evidence of being attacked before being burned with the warehouse. It's a gruesome story that Shinra has to shut off whenever it airs on television, sweeping all over Tokyo and possible national news by now. None of the publicity, even suggesting premeditated murder by some cops who think they actually know what's going on, doesn't make Shinra's job any easier.<p>

Now it's the routine checkup for Izaya, who has been comatose for days. All the immense damage to vital areas keeps Shinra from doing too many tests at once, from STD kits to any foreign DNA anywhere else. Waiting on the results just takes too long and with nothing else to do, not even able to leave for very long in the case of waiting for Izaya's condition to improve or worsen. Nothing noteworthy has come from the entire ordeal, only having the small variables of days and hours to note any insignificant changes. At the very least, Izaya's heart rate isn't through the floor anymore. Oxygen mask still attached to his face, Shinra checks his vitals for every hour, still concerned that Izaya isn't waking up.

Well, it's not that he's in danger of dying...as much.

Shinra waits by the bedside some of the time, checking his phone constantly and Izaya for any signs of waking up soon enough. No news on Shizuo comes as much as he can hope Celty's alright and it's the same chance of wanting Izaya to pull through. He knows it'll happen, despite anything that can go wrong which will, knowing the television reports to be overwhelming in the exhaustive states of trying too hard to get people hooked on the story. Burned bodies in an abandoned warehouse suspected by several people, including severe blunt force trauma on burn victims (how do they even know this if the reporter clearly states that the victims are burned beyond recognition?) directing to a terrifying source. Only the person who has made an anonymous tip has Shizuo Heiwajima's name skyrocketing on the screen only once or twice a day. It's not good press for the blond at all.

Izaya's healing fingers curl in Shinra's when the doctor gets ahold of them, delicate and careful with a friend's healing bones that feel like slivers in his palm from how sharp the bones and joints are, compared to the missing flesh. In his hand the fingers slide with minimal joint movement, careful not to worsen the breaks or slide the splints out of place. Izaya's still cold as ice, no matter the heating blanket over his body with the breaking fever still in place. Shinra questions if it's enough, watching the trembling heartbeat and wondering if this is ever going to end with Izaya, but there's a feeling that nags him when he considers the possibility of this extending far too long.

Izaya's thirst for revenge—he wouldn't let it get to him, would he?

Silence passes as Shinra considers it, thinking that Izaya's a beast and wouldn't let anything stop him when frustrated. He's not the better man but a lonely frustrated one with horrible habits (like Shinra has room to speak, though he prefers to call his habits much cleaner than Izaya's) and whoever did this to Izaya, Shinra feels the thirst clenching in his blood to at least know and dissect their brains, maybe preserve them in formaldehyde when getting the chance. And he calls himself not one for violence.

Fingers continue rubbing gentle patterns into Izaya's hand, warming the flesh from its icy remaining colors of purple and blue, skin raw and knitting itself back together with the many cuts Shinra is careful to avoid and not bandaging because they're small like paper cuts. What he doesn't expect is the break in silence.

The stranger part is that it's not his phone.

It's tap of fingers on his, twitching in his grasp.

* * *

><p><em>Aww, look at me pretending to be nice. Poor Izaya, ne? I just hurt everybody. Oh well.<em>

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
